


Take Out The Gunman

by ghostboi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Abduction, Detective Dean Winchester, M/M, Past Underage, Protective Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved, Underage - Freeform, Unrelated Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Young Sam Winchester, crazy john winchester (no relation to Dean), mentions of past rape/non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-03-18 20:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 29,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3582048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is a detective, one of the youngest on the force. Sam Wesson is a 17 year old who was taken away from home a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Might Not Be The Face You'd Expect, But He's Clearly Insane

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this one came from. Plan to write more, as time permits. Sam & Dean aren't brothers in this one (& sorry kids, no sexy time in this chapter)

The ringing of a cell phone cut through the dregs of sleep, pulling Detective Dean Winchester into consciousness. He shot a quick glance at the clock – 5:23 a.m. – as he reached for the mobile. He hit the answer button and spoke into the device, voice gruff, “Yeah?”

“Detective Winchester, we’ve got a location.” The voice at the other end was a combination of exhausted and elated, “546 Ohio Avenue.”

“On my way,” he slid out of the bed and strode to his closet, “I’ll be there in twenty.” He ended the call and, grabbing clothing from his closet, started pulling it on in the semi-dark room.

Seventeen minutes later, Dean was parking his black, 1967 Impala several blocks from the address he had been given earlier. He climbed out of his car and was met by several officers of the local police department and two other detectives. “What do we have?” he asked, accepting the Styrofoam cup of coffee which was handed to him by his current partner, Detective Garth Fitzgerald.

“The suspect we took in custody last night for meth gave up his dealer’s address when Detective Harville told him about the DA’s deal,” one of the senior officers informed him, “This was the address he gave us. Property belongs to John Winchester. He’s been on our radar for a while.”

Dean nodded; he recognized the name. The officer smiled as Dean reminded him, “He’s no relation.” The man, John Winchester, was a suspected dealer, and they had been trying to find a reason to question him for months.

“SWAT is about to go in right now,” Garth informed, “Just waiting for the word.”

Dean nodded again and instructed, “Send them in.”

 

The SWAT team was fast and efficient: twenty minutes later, they were inside the house and had the suspect, John Winchester, in cuffs. Dean entered the house, following the local officers and followed by Garth, once SWAT had given the all-clear. He entered the kitchen, where Winchester was kneeling between two officers, hands cuffed behind his back. The man was tall with dark hair and a slight beard. He looked a combination of tired and crazy: the smile on his face unsettled Dean. The Detective shook his head and moved through the house as one of the officers called for him. He joined the man in the doorway of a bedroom and peered inside.

“This guy isn’t subtle, is he?” he commented, eyes taking in the scene. The bed was covered with a patterned bedspread – it looked like something his grandmother would have made. The bedspread was covered with dozens of plastic baggies, filled with powder. A duffel bag of money was sitting at the head of the bed, as was a half-packed suitcase. There was a handgun laying next to the suitcase.

“Looks like he was planning a trip,” the officer next to him commented.

Dean nodded and instructed, “Bag and tag it.”

 

Dean moved through the house, taking in the furnishings. The furniture was older but in good shape, and the place was clean. There were several framed art pieces on the walls, and several pictures. Television set, set, books on the bookshelf: in appearance, it was your average, everyday home. One wouldn’t suspect that the owner was rumoured to be one of the most prominent drug dealers in the city.

Dean moved into the kitchen, and his gaze fell on the man in custody. Winchester was on his feet now, an armed officer standing on either side of him. “John Winchester,” Dean addressed the man, whose eyes flicked to him, “I’m Detective – “ He paused for a fraction of a second, “Detective Winchester. That’s quite a collection you have in the bedroom.”

“I like to collect things,” the older man’s voice was calm, deep, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, “Winchester, huh? Maybe we’re related.”

“Doubt it,” Dean returned immediately. He was about to speak again, when he heard his name called from another room. He shot another glance at their suspect and moved out of the kitchen.

Dean moved through the house and entered another bedroom, with Garth following behind him. This room was significantly smaller than the other rooms they had searched already. There was a door in the middle of the back wall: the room appeared to have been split into two separate rooms. He glanced at the officer as the man informed him, voice low, “There’s someone in there.”

“What?” Dean turned his gaze to the man, whom nodded toward the door in the back wall. He approached it and noticed that the door was locked from the outside with a large slide-bolt latch. In the door was what appeared to be a tiny window, covered by another small, hinged door. “Is that -?” he glanced over at Garth and the officer, and Garth moved closer.

“A food slot,” Garth finished, “I think, anyway.”

Dean’s brows furrowed and he stepped slightly to the side of the covered opening, gun in hand and at the ready. He nodded to Garth, whom had moved to the other side of the door, his own gun in hand. Dean nodded to him and slid the bolt-latch out of its home, unlocking it. He waited another moment before easing the door open, remaining out of any potential head-on line of fire. “Police,” he called a warning, “We’re coming in. If you have a weapon, drop it now!”

“I – I don’t,” the voice that replied was low and traced with fright.

Garth glanced at Dean and called, “Come out, keep your hands where we can see them!”

“I – I can’t.”

The two men exchanged a glance, and Garth repeated, “Come out with your hands in sight!”

There was a moment of silence and the voice spoke again, quieter this time, and scared, “I’m – there’s a chain on me. I can’t – I’m sorry.”

Dean frowned at the words and nodded to Garth, whom stepped back to cover him. He ducked quickly into the doorway, peering inside, before moving back into position. His initial glance had allowed him to see that there was one occupant in the room, and he was, indeed, in chains. “I’m coming in,” he called, “If you try anything, I will shoot you in the head. If I miss, my partner won’t.” With that, he stepped into the doorway.

Dean’s eyes fell on a young man – little more than a boy, really – whom was sitting on a small bed. His eyes dropped to floor level – he could see beneath the bed from his position. Satisfied that there wasn’t anyone hiding beneath it, he moved across the room. The boy was staring at him with wide, frightened eyes, hazel in color. His brown hair nearly brushed his shoulders, and there was a metal bracelet around his left wrist. A chain was locked to the bracelet, its other end locked around the headboard. He took in the boy in a half-second glance. He continued his trek through the room, gun raised as his eyes assessed their surroundings. He peered cautiously into another doorless entryway, to see a small bathroom. It was empty.

“Hands up,” he instructed. The boy flinched as he spoke and slowly raised his hands, causing the chain to clink softly. He flinched again as Garth instructed, “Can you get up? Do it.” The boy slid to the edge of the bed and stood, hands still in the air. Dean crossed to him and moved close, prepared to search him for weapons: as he reached out, panic filled the young man’s eyes and he backed against the wall. Dean’s gut told him this kid wasn’t armed and he went with the feeling.

“It’s okay,” he took several steps away from the boy – the young man relaxed slightly – and holstered his weapon, “We’re not here to hurt you. What’s your name?”

“S- Sam,” came the soft response.

“I’m Detective Winchester.”

Those hazel eyes widened again, and he assured, “No relation to the nutjob in custody. You’re not Winchester’s kid?” A shake of the head no confirmed Dean’s suspicions, “How long have you been here?”

The boy swallowed, hands still raised slightly in front of him. “I – I don’t know,” he answered the question, “A long time, I think.”

“I’m going to get that chain off you,” he told the young man, “I’ll be right back. You’ll be safe here with Detective Fitzgerald.” He nodded to Garth – the boy glanced at Garth before his gaze shifted back to him.

 

John Winchester was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs when Dean entered the kitchen. “Who’s the kid you have locked in the bedroom?” he demanded. John’s head flew up and something that looked briefly like panic flashed in his eyes.

“You didn’t let him out?” the man asked, standing and almost knocking the chair over.

“Who is he?”

“He’s the devil,” John fidgeted, pulling at the cuffs locking his wrists together, “He’s the devil. You can’t let him out.”

“Where’s the key?” Dean questioned, ignoring the ranting.

“No,” John shook his head, “You can’t let him out! You can’t let him touch you! He’s the devil!”

Dean’s eyes shifted to one of the officers as the man informed, “We found some keys in his pocket.” The man picked a plastic bag up from the table, which contained a wallet, a pocket knife, a lighter, and a ring of keys. Dean took it from the officer and pulled out the keys: he headed back through the house, ignoring John’s shouts of “You can’t let him out! He’s the devil!”

Moments later, he was in the small room. He crossed to Sam, sorting through the keys as he did. He found one that appeared to be the right shape and size as he halted in front of the captive young man. “I’m going to unlock that chain,” he told the boy. Sam shook his head no as he pressed back against the wall. 

"You – you can’t. He’ll be angry.”

“He’s in custody,” Dean assured, voice gentle, “He can’t hurt you now.”

“He – he says that I’m evil,” the fear in those soft-spoken words sent a spike of anger through Dean, “He says that – that people can’t touch me because I’ll corrupt them. You – you shouldn’t touch me..”

“He’s wrong,” Dean moved to unlock the cuff around the boy’s wrist, and the young man flinched and drew back. “It’s okay, Sam. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you.” Their gazes locked, his green eyes meeting the hazel ones, and the young man nodded slowly and whispered, “Okay.”

His hands were shaking as he held out his wrist, but he remained motionless otherwise as Dean unlocked the cuff around his wrist. Another flinch as Dean gently took the young man’s wrist in his hands, inspecting it for damage. The flesh was bruised slightly but appeared in fairly decent shape.

“Garth,” Dean turned to glance at the other detective, “Have them take our suspect down to the station.” The other detective nodded and moved to leave the room. After Garth was gone, Dean turned his eyes to the captive. “I’m going to take you down to the station with us,” he said gently, “We need to ask a few questions.”

“Okay,” came the whispered answer. Dean motioned toward the door, and the boy took several steps toward it before halting. He shot the detective a terrified look, and Dean dropped a hand to his shoulder. “It’s okay,” he assured again, “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” The boy had gone rigid at his touch: as Dean lightly squeezed his shoulder, he noticed the kid lean into his hand. He snagged a blanket from the bed and draped it around the young man’s shoulders.

They exited the house several minutes later, stepping onto the front porch. Dean glanced over at the young man as Sam made a sound that sounded a great deal like a gasp. The young man was holding his hand up to shield his eyes as he stared at the skies - the sun was rising - and there was a look of fear and awe on his features.

“How long has it been since you left that room?” he questioned gently.

“I don’t know,” there was uncertainty in the whisper, “A long time.”

Dean’s gaze shifted to two approaching officers as they moved across the yard, toward them.

“We can take him with – “ one of the men started.

The young man whimpered and moved to shield himself behind Dean. He glanced over his shoulder at the kid, studying him, before waving the officers away, “He can ride with me.” The men nodded and headed back toward their car. “They won’t hurt you,” Dean turned to face Sam, “They’re police officers, like me.” Sam worried his lower lip with his teeth, and Dean told him, “It’s okay, you can ride in with me.”

They were heading toward Dean’s car – he had a hand on the young man’s shoulder, guiding him – when they heard a shout from a nearby police car,

“You can’t let him out! He’ll turn you, he’s the devil! He’ll corrupt you!”

John Winchester was shouting from the backseat of the cruiser, his face nearly pressed against the police car window and his eyes on Sam.

“Get him out of here!” Disgust traced Dean’s voice as he snapped the instruction. The officer behind the wheel of the car holding John Winchester quickly obeyed.

Dean shifted his gaze back to the young man at his side, to find that Sam was visibly shaking and holding the blanket tight around his shoulders. “It’s okay,” he placed a hand on the boy’s back – he felt a shiver run through the boy – and guided him to his car.


	2. Just Need A Bit Of Luck, Get 'Em Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's safe. Dean has to figure out what to do with him, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief mentions of past non-con in this chapter.

Dean had Sam waiting safely inside an empty office at the police station a short while later. It hadn’t escaped his notice that the boy shied away from anyone else who approached or spoke to him, hiding himself behind Dean. He left an officer outside the door but instructed the man to keep everyone else out of the room until his return.

Dean entered the interrogation room, where John Winchester was sitting at a table, hands cuffed to a metal ring in the metal surface. He crossed to seat himself in the empty chair across from the suspect. After studying him in silence for a long minute, Dean informed him, “We have you on 13 counts of meth and heroin possession so far, and four counts of trafficking.” 

The man raised his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, a frown touching his features. “It’s a bad business,” the man said, “but the money’s good.” 

Dean let out a soft snort. The man across the table from him had admitted that he was a dealer and had signed a confession. He had also declined a lawyer. Dean wasn't certain if he realized they had a solid case against him or if he was just stark raving mad. After a moment of studying the man, he asked, “Who’s the boy?” 

John’s blue gaze returned to them, and an almost manic look touched them, “You let him out? You can't let him out! He’s the devil. You have to lock him up.” 

“How long have you had him locked up?” Dean clenched a fist in his lap, trying to remain calm. 

"Listen to me,” John leaned forward, cuffs rattling against the table’s metal surface, “You can’t let him touch you. His touch will corrupt you. I knew from the moment I first laid eyes on him that he was evil! He makes you do things. He’ll ruin you if you touch him! He’ll corrupt you!"

Dean raised a brow at the man’s ranting. “You want to explain what that even means, crazy eyes?” 

"He gets in your head and he makes you dream things, think things, do things,” John shifted, pulled at the cuffs again, eyes shifting from Dean to the two-way mirror behind Dean, and back again. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know and he corrupted me. I tried to fight it but it was too strong.”

Dean felt a chill run through him as a thought struck him, “What did you do to him, Winchester?” 

A maniacal grin touched the man’s lips, “He crawled in my dreams. Made me dream things, made me dream of doing things. He got in my head and drew me to him, made me.” 

“What did you do?” anger traced the detective’s voice now, but John either didn’t catch it or ignored it. 

“He called me to him,” the man’s voice dropped but the half-crazed smile remained, “He called me to him and made me put my cock in his mouth. Wanted me to fuck him, he was sending me dreams –“ 

Dean shoved his chair back and stood, fists clenched on the table between them. “You’re a pervert and a pedophile,” he interrupted the man through gritted teeth, “And you’re going away for a long time, you sick bastard.”

Dean stormed out of the interrogation room, trying to fight down his rage at Winchester’s confessions. He crossed through the station until he reached the empty office where he had temporarily placed Sam: peering in the window, he saw that the boy was huddled up on a small sofa, his knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Dean turned as he heard Garth’s voice behind him,  
“Might have found something on the kid.” 

He took the file which the other man handed him and flipped it open as Garth continued, “A boy went missing from a park in Wichita 9 years ago. His name was Samuel Wesson and he was 8 years old. Physical description matches – granted, he’s older now. This kid had a birthmark on the back of his left shoulder. If that boy in the office has it, this could very well be him.”

Dean nodded, acknowledging the information, as he perused the file. The picture of the boy in the file did resemble the young man in the office, somewhat. “No next of kin listed,” he noted. The boy had been listed as a foster child during the time of his disappearance, and both biological parents were listed as deceased. “Think that crazy bastard in interrogation has had him the entire time?” 

“I don’t know,” Garth replied, “but you should probably let me talk to him to find out. I heard what went on in interrogation and you’d probably choke him out before you listened to anymore of that insane shit he was going on about.”  
“Got that right,” Dean muttered. Garth rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly.  
“Why don’t you go see if the kid has a birthmark?” the other man suggested, “I’ll go talk to crazy in interrogation.” 

Dean entered the office that housed Sam several minutes later, a can of Pepsi in hand. The boy raised fearful eyes to him and watched as he approached. “Hey,” Dean’s voice was calm, gentle, as he spoke to the young man, “Brought you a soda.” 

He offered it to the boy, whom stared at it for a long moment. He sat it down on a small table next to the sofa and told the boy, “It’s right there if you’re thirsty. You mind if I sit down here?” He motioned to the empty spot on the sofa next to Sam. The young man froze momentarily, before whispering,  
“I – no.” 

Dean sat down, careful to keep his movements slow as to avoid startling the boy. “You said you were with Winchester for a long time,” he recalled, “Do you know how long?” 

Sam was silent for a moment, eyes on the floor. He shook his head as he raised his hazel gaze, and whispered, “I don’t know. I remember snow when I was younger, and summer, and snow again. A lot of summers and winters passed.” 

"Can you tell me your full name?"

Another shake of the head. Sam dropped his eyes again and whispered, “I – I don’t know. I can’t remember. He only called me Sam.”  
“Do you remember where you’re from?”  
Yet another shake of the head. 

“Okay,” Dean nodded, “That’s okay. You’re doing good. Do you mind if I take a look at the back of your shoulder?” 

Sam shot him an uneasy glance, and Dean assured him, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to do anything. I just want to see if you have a birthmark there. We’re trying to find out your name and where you’re from.” 

Sam hesitated – Dean didn’t blame him at all – his hazel eyes meeting Dean’s green gaze. After a long moment, he shifted his position so that his back was to Dean. His whisper of “Okay,” was barely audible.

Dean reached toward the boy but paused. “I’m going to lift the edge of your shirt,” he said softly, to let the boy know what he was doing. He reached out and gently pulled the edge of the shirt up, revealing the skin of the boy’s back. Dean pushed the shirt up further, his fingers accidentally skimming the young man’s skin as he did so. He both saw and felt the shiver that ran through the other man. He pushed the shirt up a bit further, revealing the young man’s shoulder. His eyes fell on a small dark mark, which looked like someone had scribbled with a fine-tipped marker. 

Dean raised a hand to brush a fingertip over the spot, making certain it really wasn’t marker: again, the boy in front of him shivered.  
“You okay?” he pulled his hand away and tugged the young man’s shirt back down, and Sam nodded yes.  
Dean leaned back against the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. After a moment, he asked the young man next to him, “Are you okay with me asking you some questions? About Winchester?”  
The boy nodded yes, his eyes on the floor, and Dean pulled a small notepad out of the pocket of his jacket.

 

Dean left the office a little over an hour later, leaving instructions for the officer standing guard to keep everyone else out of the room. He exited the station and crossed the street to a small coffee shop, which was favored by he and his fellow law enforcement members. He had been questioning the boy, Sam, for a bit over an hour; he had decided the boy needed a break when Sam started shaking visibly. Now he was here to grab himself a cup of coffee and to get the young man something to eat.

His time questioning Sam had given him some answers, though not as many as he wanted. He had discovered that the boy had been taken by Winchester when he was young – Sam thought maybe he had been 8 or 9, though he couldn’t quite remember. He had been in Winchester’s ‘care’ since he was taken. The man had kept him in the small room in which they had found him, almost constantly, for the past several years: before that, he had been allowed to leave it on occasion. 

He couldn’t remember his parents – the paperwork in the missing persons file from years before had stated that they had passed when the boy was four years old. There hadn’t been a next of kin listed, and the kid had ended up in the foster system. He could only vaguely recall the foster parents whom had been caring for him when Winchester had taken him: foster mom had been aloof and drank a lot, from Sam’s description, and foster dad was on the road frequently. 

Winchester hadn’t been cruel, precisely (according to Sam), but he hadn’t allowed the boy to leave the house without him, ever, even to go out in the back yard. He was allowed to watch television and listen to the radio, but not leave the house. He knew nothing about Winchester’s drug operation, and had been surprised to hear that the man had been selling meth and heroin “like on t.v.”. 

Winchester had told the boy repeatedly that he was the devil or a demon, that his touch would corrupt other people, and that he was keeping him to “keep others safe”. 

For a while, Winchester had taken him places with him every now and again, claiming Sam was his nephew. Around the time he had turned 13 (Sam had guessed), that had stopped. He had been locked in his little room then, and the only person he saw, ever, was Winchester. 

The boy had informed Dean that Winchester had rarely touched him, even when “doing things”. He had followed that with “He’s not bad, he’s not. He’s always been nice to me. He shouldn’t be in trouble because I’m – because I’m a freak.” 

That had been the point when he had started shaking and Dean had decided he needed a break. 

The entire situation pissed Dean off: the kid seemed to have some type of Stockholm Syndrome, and he seemed perplexed by his surroundings. It wasn’t a surprise, given the fact that he had been locked up for years, and John Winchester had been the only person he had seen during that time. Dean hated that he had the same last name as John Winchester, and he wanted to kick in the door to the interrogation room and kick the man’s head in.

He reached the counter and greeted the barista, Megan. He ordered his usual coffee and, not certain what Sam liked to eat, a couple of muffins and a turkey sandwich. As an afterthought, he added a ham sandwich, two Coca-colas and a couple bags of chips to the order, just in case. He sat down at a nearby table to wait for his order, his thoughts on the current case. 

John Winchester had confessed to the drugs and the fact that he dealt them, and he had all but sang about how he had kept Sam locked away. He would be facing quite a few years of time for the drugs and kidnapping, but it wouldn’t be long enough, if you asked Dean. Now he had to figure out what to do with Sam. According to the records on the boy, he would be 18 in a couple of months. Putting him back in the foster system would be pointless. He supposed they could use funds from the victim fund the local police station had set up for people in Sam’s situation, or similar ones, and set the boy – the young man, he mentally corrected himself – up in some type of housing, until he could get himself together.

Dean’s train of thought was broken momentarily as Megan brought him his bagged food and his coffee. He thanked her and slipped a tip into her hand before standing and leaving the shop, goods in hand.


	3. Had To Choose, Had To Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's protective side shows itself.

When Dean returned to the station, he was approached by Garth. “The Assistant DA is in there with Sam,” his partner relayed, “The kid’s kind of freaking out.”  
“Damnit, I told her to wait,” Dean huffed, quickening his pace. 

He reached the office and entered, pausing a moment to take in the scene. The assistant district attorney was standing in the middle of the room, and Sam wasn’t in sight.  
“I’m not going to hurt you,” the woman was saying, “I just want to talk.” 

Dean shook his head and handed the bag of food and his coffee to Garth before crossing to the middle of the room. The ADA shot him an exasperated look as he told her, “I told you to wait, that he needs a little time.” 

“I had questions,” the woman retorted. She nodded toward the back of the room and the desk sitting there and informed, “He’s behind the desk.” 

“He hasn’t seen anyone but that maniac in years,” Dean’s voice was low, almost a growl, so that only the ADA could hear him, “You can’t rush in here and demand that he answer questions when he’s afraid of everyone he encounters.” Before she could respond, he crossed to the desk.

"Hey Sammy,” Dean leaned over the desk slightly, to get an idea of where the young man was hiding. He saw Sam’s legs sticking out from beneath the desk, and he moved cautiously around it so that he was in the boy’s line of sight. He removed his suit jacket and laid it on the desk, and then he seated himself on the floor, cross-legged. “You don’t have to talk,” he told the kid as Sam cowered further beneath the piece of furniture, “You don’t even have to come out of there. I just want to make sure you’re okay.” 

The boy was silent, and he continued, voice gentle, “That’s our assistant district attorney over there. She’s not as scary as she seems, but you don’t have to talk to her right now. I brought some food if you’re hungry. I don’t know what you like to eat so I brought a couple of different things. You can eat all of it, or you don’t have to eat any of it. It’s your choice.” 

He saw the young man peering out at him, and he shot him a small smile. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you, either. I know it probably doesn’t seem like it right now, but you’re safe here.” 

He raised his eyes and peered over the desk at the ADA, whom was standing in the middle of the room, watching him. He motioned toward the door and, though he didn’t say the words, the meaning was clear. She shot him a momentary frown before nodding and leaving the room. Garth placed the food and coffee he was still holding on the sofa and followed her out of the room, closing the door softly behind him. 

"Just you and me now, kiddo,” Dean’s eyes shifted to Sam, to find that the boy was watching him still. “Hang tight a sec.” 

He pushed himself to his feet and crossed to sofa, on which rested the bag of food and his coffee. He picked them and returned to his spot in front of the desk. He seated himself, placing the bag on the floor next to him, and sipped at his coffee for a moment. “You can stay under there if you want,” he told the young man, “but if you want to come out, that’s okay, too.” He sat his coffee on the floor and opened the bag to peer inside. “Got some sandwiches in here,” he told the other, “Some chips. Some Cokes and some muffins.” 

The boy shifted beneath the desk before asking, his voice almost a whisper, “Just you and me?”  
“Yeah,” Dean promised, giving him what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “Just you and me.” 

His smile widened a bit, showing teeth, as Sam crawled out from beneath the desk. The boy seated himself just in front of it – he could slide back beneath it quite easily if anyone else entered the room. 

“Hungry?” Dean gently shoved the bag over to him, “Help your self. It’s all for you.”  
There was a moment of hesitation: Sam glanced at Dean and reached into the bag. 

Dean sipped his coffee as Sam ate one of the sandwiches and a bag of the chips. He sat down the Styrofoam cup at one point to open one of the still-cold Cokes, which he placed in front of Sam. The boy shot him a slight smile and continued munching on his sandwich. He was nearly done with it when he asked between bites, “What’s going to happen to me now?” 

“Well,” Dean sat his coffee cup on the floor and leaned back against the filing cabinet behind him, pulling his knees up to rest his elbows on them, “The assistant district attorney may want to ask you some questions about your time with John Winchester. We’re looking into your records to see if you have a relative we should contact.” 

The boy carefully folded his now-finished sandwich wrapper – a piece of wax paper – and placed it in the bag, “Am I in trouble?”  
“No,” Dean shook his head, “You’re not in trouble, Sam. You didn’t do anything wrong.”  
The young man worried his bottom lip, and he looked every bit the 8 year old whom had been abducted 9 years earlier.  
"But – “ he raised his eyes to Dean for a brief moment before dropping them to the floor again, “But I made – made him do –“ 

The young man fidgeted, brows furrowed, before whispering, “He said I made him do things. Am I in trouble for that?” 

“You didn’t make him do anything, Sammy,” Dean told the young man. He shifted to sit up straight, legs crossed again, “John Winchester is a messed-up, sick individual. What he did, he did on his own, and he’s going away for a long time for it. You didn’t make him do anything.” 

Sam nodded once but wouldn’t meet Dean’s gaze. 

"You don’t believe all that sh-- all that stuff he said about you, do you?” 

Sam shrugged a lean shoulder as he raised a hand to chew on his thumbnail. “Not always,” he answered quietly, “Sometimes I do. Not always.”  
Dean edged closer to the young man as he told him, “You didn’t do anything, Sam. None of that was your fault. You’re not a demon, or the devil, or whatever other nonsense Winchester told you. None of it was your fault and you’re not in trouble.”  
The young man gave him a tiny, hesitant smile and whispered, “Thanks.”

 

Several hours later, Dean was standing in his Captain’s office. The assistant district attorney and the district attorney, and his Captain, Bobby Singer, were with him. He was currently in an argument with the ADA over the boy in the office across the station.

“We’re going to need him to testify against Winchester’s drug operation,” the ADA was demanding, her hands on her hips.  
Normally, Dean would have found it a little hot. Right now, though, it was just annoying. “I told you,” exasperation traced his voice, “He doesn’t know anything about it.” 

“How could he not?” the ADA asked. 

“He’s been locked in a room, chained to a bed, for the past four years,” he reminded, real anger lacing his words. It pissed him off to no end when people like the assistant district attorney seemed to forget that real people were involved in these cases, and they couldn’t always be used to make or break a case. 

The ADA didn’t pick up on his anger, but his Captain knew him far better.  
“Calm down, Dean,” the older man soothed, leaning back against his desk. The Captain’s gaze shifted to the ADA and he told her, “If Dean says the kid doesn’t know anything about the drug operation, well then, the kid doesn’t know anything about it. He’s my lead detective for a reason.”  
“I would still like to ask him some questions,” the woman said. 

“No,” Dean crossed his arms over his chest, “Forget it. You had him hiding under a desk the first time you tried to question him. That kid is traumatized enough as it is.” 

She started to protest, but fell silent as the District Attorney, Fergus Crowley, raised a hand. The man spoke with a slight British accent, “He’s right. The boy isn’t going to help us with the drug case. We have Winchester’s confession for the acts against the boy. Leave –Sam, is it?- to the detective and focus on John Winchester and his drug operation.” 

“Fine,” the ADA huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.  
Dean nodded to the DA and, at a nod from his Captain, left the office.

 

Dean stopped outside of the office where Sam was currently lying on the sofa, dozing. He glanced to his left as Garth joined him. The thin man peered in the window, at the sleeping boy, and smiled a little. 

“Makes the job a little better to know we can help people,” the man commented. 

Dean nodded in agreement – he understood exactly what Garth meant. It was a difficult job, and worse when the people they were trying to help fell through the cracks or were hurt in some way. They helped people on a daily basis, but it still hurt when they came across someone they couldn’t help, for some reason. 

“Got a safe house set up for him for the next few days,” Garth nodded at the window, referring to the young man inside the office, “Til we figure something better out.”  
Dean nodded his acknowledgement and said, “Thanks, Garth.” They watched the sleeping young man for a moment before entering the room.

Sam sat up, startled, as they entered.  
“Hey,” Dean greeted the young man on the sofa. The boy shot him a slight smile before his gaze shifted to Garth.  
“He’s okay,” Dean promised, “He’s one of the good guys. You can trust Detective Fitzgerald.” 

“Garth,” Garth added, “You can call me Garth.” 

Sam shot them another small smile. His eyes shifted to Dean as the Detective crossed to sit on the sofa beside him. “We’re going to set you up in one of our safe houses for a couple of days,” he told the young man, “while we work on finding you a more permanent place to stay.” 

Sam remained silent but nodded. Garth moved a bit closer and asked, his voice soft and gentle, “I don’t want to upset you, but.. do you need anything from Winchester’s place? Any personal items or anything that we didn’t have the chance to get?” 

Sam shook his head no, but hesitated. “I – don’t have any clothes,” he said, voice quiet. 

“If you don’t want to go back for what you have there, we’ll get you new clothes,” Garth told him with a smile.  
Sam nodded quickly, relief touching his features.  
“Let’s get you out of here, then,” Dean stood, and Sam followed his lead, “and settled into some place with a bed.” 

 

It was almost 11 p.m. when Dean made it to his apartment. He went inside, shutting and locking the door behind him, and moved through the place. He flipped on the living room and kitchen lights as he did. He shed his suit jacket, tossing it on the couch, and laid his keys on the kitchen counter. Retrieving a glass and a bottle of whiskey from one of the cabinets, he poured himself a drink. The detective downed half of it before moving to his bedroom to change clothes, glass in hand.

They had dropped Sam at the safe house several hours ago. They had offered to have an officer stay with him for a day or two, but that idea had seemed to unsettle the young man. Instead, they had an officer positioned outside the safe house, keeping an eye on him, for the night. Dean had read awe and intimidation on Sam’s face as they have given him a short tour of the safe house, which was actually an apartment: a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. The place was outfitted with cable and stocked with food and beverages. 

Sam had seemed a little overwhelmed as he stared out one of the windows, and Dean had reminded himself that the boy had spent the past four years locked in a 12’ by 14’ room with no window to offer a view. He had been hesitant about leaving the boy, simply because of the fear he could see beneath the brave front Sam was putting up. Instead, he had promised to check on him the following morning and had taken his leave. The kid just needed time to adjust, he figured. His life had been turned completely upside down in the course of 12 hours. The last thing he probably needed was strangers, even law enforcement, in his personal space.

Dean finished his drink and placed the empty glass on his dresser before heading for the en suite and its shower.


	4. So Little Left Of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam isn't handling the safe house very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow work, building the story.

"Time to head home, Sunshine,” Dean greeted Garth as his partner climbed into the car.   
“Uh-huh,” the other man returned, “Coffee?”   
He chuckled as he handed the other man a cup of coffee: It had been a long couple of days, and both of them needed the caffeine. 

“I’m going to stop by the safe house and check on Sam on the way. Want to ride with, or should I drop you at home first?”   
Garth took a sip of his coffee before answering, “I’ll ride with.”

Three days had passed since finding Sam in the clutches of John Winchester, and taking him from the drug dealer’s house. Dean had stopped by the morning after they had set him up in the apartment, but they had been caught up in a case late into the night last night, and he hadn’t had the chance to stop in and check on the kid in person. The officer sitting watch outside the house had reported everything to be quiet, but Dean liked to know for himself how the kid was doing.

They pulled in front of the safe house fifteen minutes later and climbed out of the car. Dean shot Garth a smirk as he saw that the other man was still carrying his coffee. He tapped on the door and waited: when he didn’t hear an answer, and the door wasn’t opened, he knocked again, a bit louder. 

“Maybe he’s in the shower,” Garth reasoned two minutes later, when there was still no answer. 

A third knock and no answer had Dean pulling out his keys and the extra safe house key he had on his ring. He glanced at Garth, whom placed his coffee cup on the ground to pull his gun, before unholstering his own weapon. He unlocked the door and carefully pushed it open, alert for any signs of danger.

They had cleared the house two minutes later of any obvious signs of danger, but hadn’t found the boy they had stopped in to see.   
“Officer Bryant says he hasn’t left the house,” Garth informed, hanging up his cell phone, “He’s gotta be here some place.”   
“Sam,” Dean strode through the house as he holstered his weapon, checking the rooms, “Sammy!” He was about to leave one of the bedrooms when a noise caught his attention. 

“Sammy?”

“Dean?” the voice was muffled, quiet, but obviously Sam’s. 

Dean moved quickly to the closet and opened the door: the light shining in from the bedroom revealed the missing young man. Sam was huddled into the closet’s corner, his knees drawn to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them. His eyes were frightened and confused, and tears tracked down his cheeks. 

“Sam,” Dean breathed a sigh of relief and knelt in front of the boy, “Are you okay? What are you doing in here?”   
“Too big,” came the whispered response, “I – it’s too big, I didn’t –“ He trailed off as a sob escaped him. 

Dean leaned in to take hold of the kid’s arm and pull the boy to him without any real thought behind the action. He pulled the young man into his arms, and Sam tensed for a moment. Dean was thinking he had made a mistake and was about to release him, when the boy practically melted into his embrace. He held the boy close, and Sam buried his face against Dean’s chest. 

"You okay?” he asked softly, bringing a hand up to stroke the young man’s hair. Sam nodded, shook his head no, nodded again.   
“I don’t know,” the young man whispered miserably, “I don’t know what to do here. It’s too big.” 

“It’s okay,” Dean soothed, stroking his fingers through the longish chestnut hair. His fingers slid through the locks and found the back of the young man’s neck, and he traced his fingertips over the skin there in what he hoped was a soothing manner. He felt the full-body shiver that coursed through the other, and realization struck him: the kid had been locked in what had been almost a closet for a long time, by a man who was afraid to touch him for fear of being “corrupted”. He hadn’t had anyone else in his life other than John Winchester for years, quite literally: the kid was touch-starved. Dean closed his eyes as his mind was bombarded with implications of what it had been like, to be locked up and quite literally alone, except for a crazy drug dealer. 

“It’s okay,” he repeated again, his own voice little more than a whisper. He slid a hand down the young man’s back, trying to offer him some comfort and safety, and Sam shivered again. 

Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Garth standing in the doorway. He gave the other man a nod, indicating that everything was alright, and Garth returned the gesture and left the room. His green gaze moved back to the boy in his arms. The young man had stopped crying, it seemed, and was practically arching into Dean’s hand, which was rubbing his back. 

“Been a long time since anyone has held you, huh?” he asked gently.   
The other boy tried to pull away, cheeks flushing red, and he smiled down at him.   
“It’s okay,” he said, continuing his rubbing of Sam’s back, “It’s okay, Sammy. I’ve got you.”   
Sam made a sound that was almost a whimper and slid his arms around Dean’s waist, leaning in closer to the man. 

They sat like that for several minutes longer: it was the ringing of Dean’s cell phone that made him pull away, finally. He pulled it from his pocket and glanced at it, before flicking it open. 

“Captain,” he greeted the man at the other end. He listened for a moment before speaking,   
“He’s.. not handling this place well.”   
“Yeah, not used to it.”   
“No, no. I don’t think that’s the answer.” 

He listened for a moment longer before answering his Captain’s question of “What do we do with him, then?” 

His green eyes dropped to Sam, who was watching him, trust in his hazel gaze. He shot the boy a smile – Sam returned it with a slight smile of his own – before telling his Captain, “I’m going to take him back to my place. He trusts me, and he’s afraid here on his own. He can stay with me until he figures things out for himself. Yeah, I’m certain.” 

With a ‘thanks, Bobby,’ Dean ended the call. He glanced down at Sam again as the young man whispered,   
“I – I can go with you?” 

“Yeah,” he carded his fingers through Sam’s hair – the young man’s eyes slid shut at the gesture, “You can come with me. Come on, let’s go home.”


	5. Cracks & Clues, He's Crazy As A Straw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes Sam home with him. He burns eggs. He has an unexpected realization (but not about the eggs).

A little over an hour later, Dean entered his apartment. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain his new houseguest was following him: he was satisfied to see that Sam was close behind him. He stepped aside and allowed the young man to enter the apartment before closing and locking the door. 

“Welcome to mi casa,” Dean led the way through the apartment, a duffel bag with Sam’s clothing and toiletries slung over one muscled shoulder. He pointed to the living areas as he passed by them: “Kitchen. Living room. Bathroom is over there. My room.” He paused in front of the until-now empty second bedroom and said, “And this is your room, now.” 

Sam hesitated, glancing at him, before entering the bedroom. He took in the space as Dean crossed to the bed and sat the duffel bag down on it. The detective turned to the younger man, “I want you to make yourself at home here, okay? Watch t.v., eat food, read books.” 

Sam nodded, arms crossed over his chest: Dean didn’t miss the look of uneasiness etched on the young man’s features.   
“You’re safe here,” he promised, stepping closer to the other, “and you’re not a captive, here. You can do what you want. You can leave the apartment if you want, though I would appreciate a note if you’re going to be gone when I get back, so I don’t worry. I want you to feel safe here.” 

Sam nodded again, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. He raised his hazel gaze to Dean as he said, voice low, “I don’t know if – if I remember how to do this.” 

“How to do what?” 

“How to – be like everyone else,” came the response, “How to live outside my room.” 

A spike of anger toward John Winchester and sadness for this young man in front of him shot through Dean, and he laid a hand on the other’s shoulder. “We’ll get you there,” he assured, “It will take a little time for you to adjust, that’s all.” 

The young man nodded again, whether in agreement or to appease Dean, the detective wasn’t certain. 

“It’s pretty late,” he noted, “I’m going to hit the sack. If you’re hungry, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Watch television if you want, or sleep. Whatever you want to do is okay by me.” 

“Okay,” Sam smiled at him, and Dean gave the boy one of his own.   
“Night, Sammy.” He moved to leave the room but paused in the doorway as Sam spoke,   
“Detective Winchester – “   
“Dean,” he reminded with a smile.   
“Dean,” Sam repeated, “Thanks. For – for letting me stay here. For getting me out of there.”   
“Any time, kiddo,” he replied softly. 

Dean entered his own room and shed his tie and suit, to change into a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt. He went to the en-suite to brush his teeth before crossing to his bed. He crawled beneath the bed covers, grateful that he had the next two days off. He had the feeling that he was going to need it. He stared up at the ceiling for several minutes, waiting for his body to relax and listening for any sounds from the other rooms. He heard footsteps in the other bedroom, and the soft, barely audible creaking of bedsprings. He smiled, glad that Sam was going to get some sleep (he hoped), and closed his own eyes. 

 

The sun was shining through the blinds when Dean woke the following morning. He lay in bed and considered going back to sleep, but his bladder prompted him to get up. The detective slid out of the bed and stretched, reaching above his head: his stiff spine cracked in several places and he breathed a sigh of relief. He crossed to the en-suite to empty his bladder, then washed his hands and brushed his teeth. He contemplated changing into jeans and a t-shirt when he was finished, but decided he was too comfortable in his pajamas. At least until after breakfast. 

Dean exited his bedroom and paused in the hallway to stretch again. When he was finished, he moved to the next door down and paused in front of it. He hesitated a moment before knocking lightly; after several seconds, he opened the door. The detective stepped into the room, a frown touching his features as he saw that the bed was empty. Maybe Sam was elsewhere in the apartment. He turned to leave but paused as his eyes fell on the closet door. He stared at it in consideration for a moment, and crossed to open it. 

Dean glanced into the closet and spotted Sam lying on the floor of the small space. The young man was curled up in the fetal position, a blanket pulled tight around his shoulders. He opened his eyes as the closet door opened; a flush touched his cheeks as he stared up at Dean. 

“Hey kid,” the man greeted as if it was a normal occurrence to find his house guest sleeping on the floor of a closet, “Sleep well?”   
The young man nodded, and Dean reached out a hand. “Come on out, then,” he suggested, “I’ll fix some breakfast.” 

They were in the kitchen, with Sam seated on a bar stool at the counter and Dean in front of the stove. “Like eggs?” the man questioned. He received a soft-spoken affirmation, and Dean grinned and said, “Awesome. You’ll love my eggs, then.” 

He flipped the bacon that was sizzling in one skillet, then set about making eggs for both of them. “You know how to cook?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at the young man. Sam dropped his eyes to the counter-top and shook his head no. “No problem,” Dean assured, “It’s not hard to learn.” He forked the bacon out of its skillet, onto a plate, and turned off that burner, “If I can cook, anyone can cook.” 

He glanced at the boy again as Sam said, “John – John was an okay cook.”   
“Yeah?” he tried to keep his response noncommittal, calm – he wanted Sam to feel that he could talk to him.   
“Yeah,” the young man shifted on the bar stool, “Is it –“ He hesitated for a moment before continuing, “I kinda miss him. Is that messed up? I know that’s messed up of me.” There was a frown on the boy’s features, and confusion. 

“Hey,” Dean moved to stand across the bar-styled counter from him, “It’s okay, Sammy. You’re not messed up.”

“No?”

"Not like you probably think,” he said gently, “You were there for a long time. There’s a saying that goes ‘the devil you know is better than the devil you don’t’. He’s the devil you know, and everything out here is new and unfamiliar. You miss him because you know him. It will take a while to adjust. That doesn’t mean you’re messed up.” 

Sam was silent for a moment, contemplating the words; he raised his eyes to Dean and gave the man a smile. His smile widened – the sight hit Dean right in the heart, he was fairly certain – and he said, “I think your eggs are burning.” 

“My – oh shit!” Dean turned and rushed to the stove, where he grabbed the pan off the burner. “Okay, when I said you would like my eggs,” he said as he eyed the very overcooked mess in the skillet, “I didn’t mean these particular eggs.” Sam laughed aloud at that, and Dean stared at him for a moment, a grin on his own face.

As he turned to scrape the burned eggs into the trash can and make some more, a thought, troubling because of the situation and Sam’s age, struck him: If Sam’s smile touched Dean’s heart, his laugh was bound to steal it. 

 

When breakfast was finished (the eggs were far better the second time ‘round), Dean rinsed the dishes and moved into the living room. Sam followed, albeit a bit behind, as if hesitant. The detective seated himself on the living room couch and, glancing up at Sam, invited, “Have a seat.” 

The boy sat on the other end of the couch, glancing at Dean briefly before averting his gaze. Dean picked up the remote and turned on the television to flip through the channels. Usually, he went for a jog in the mornings on his days off, but decided to skip it today. 

"We can go out some place if you want,” he shot the other a glance, “Go to the park or a movie or something.”

He figured that, given the way the kid was shying from everyone besides Dean, he wouldn’t want to be around other people right now. Still, he wanted to let him make the decision for himself. 

Sam bit his bottom lip and cast him a quick glance; a moment later he said, voice low, “I – I don’t .. I’m not used to other people..”   
“It’s okay,” he assured with a smile, “We can hang out here. Have you ever seen ‘Army of Darkness’?” Sam shook his head no, and Dean grinned and shoved himself up off the couch. He crossed to the entertainment center and searched through a rack of DVDs, before pulling one out. “Campy as hell,” he said as he put the DVD in the player, “but a great movie.” 

Dean’s gaze shifted from the movie a short while later, to Sam. The young man’s eyes were on the television set, but he was rubbing the back of his left shoulder with his right hand. Sam glanced at him and saw that he was watching him. He shot Dean a slight smile as he said,   
“Bit stiff.” 

Dean snorted in amusement and replied, “That’s what happens when you sleep in a closet, kid.”   
A flush touched the kid’s cheeks and he glanced away for a moment.   
“Hey, I’m just teasing you,” Dean felt a little guilty suddenly – it wasn’t the kid’s fault that he wasn’t used to larger spaces. “Feel free to tell me to piss off, okay?”   
Sam smiled again and nodded in agreement as he continued to rub at his shoulder.

Dean watched him for a moment, wincing in sympathy as Sam hit an obviously tender spot and flinched. “Come here,” he finally said. Sam glanced at him, and he patted the couch next to him, “I can fix that shoulder for you.” 

The young man hesitated, his eyes searching Dean’s face. He slid closer a moment later, shooting glances at the Detective from the corner of his eye. Dean understood the fight-or-flight response all too well: he experienced it frequently in his line of work. He made certain Sam could see his hands as he raised them and said, “What you need is a massage. That will knock that soreness right out of there.” Sam glanced at him again and, after a moment’s thought, nodded and said,   
“Okay.” 

Dean nodded and suggested, “Turn a little so I can reach.” Sam obeyed, shifting to sit sideways on the couch, his back to Dean.

Dean kept his movements slow as he reached out and laid his hands on Sam’s shoulders. The last thing he wanted to do was send the kid hiding beneath the bed or something. The first thing he noticed as he gave the muscles beneath his hands a slight squeeze was that Sam was tense. No wonder he was sore. He began kneading the muscles gently and Dean didn’t miss the shiver that racked the young man’s frame. Sam stiffened as he started the massage, but after a minute or so, he started to relax. 

Massages, in Dean’s opinion, were one of the best things ever. They ranked up there somewhere with good whiskey, good sex and good pie. His previous partner had grabbed hold of him after a particularly rough case one night and started massaging his shoulders, which had been throbbing from tension and exhaustion. It had knocked the tension out of him like whiskey couldn’t, and it had become his favored method of relaxing aching muscles. 

Castiel, his former partner of two years, hadn’t seemed to think anything of placing his hands on Dean’s shoulders or back after a rough case and giving him a quick massage. Dean had been more than happy to return the favor. He missed working with Castiel. They worked very well together, and the man was his best friend. Dean had nearly had a heart-attack when he had been shot in the line of duty. He was currently on leave for recuperation and physical therapy. Dean liked Garth well enough, but he missed Cas. 

Dean’s attention was pulled back to Sam as the young man sighed softly. He couldn’t help but smile as he noticed that Sam was relaxed and leaning back into his touch. “Starting to feel better?” 

“Mmhmm,” was Sam’s response, which caused Dean to chuckle. He dug his fingers in to a knotted muscle just beneath Sam’s shoulder blade. The other tensed slightly for a moment before relaxing completely. The relaxation didn’t surprise Dean: it was the sound that Sam made immediately after, something that sounded like a cross between a soft moan and a purr, that caught him off-guard. The sound, combined with the way Sam was leaning into his touch, sent a jolt straight through him that brought certain other parts of his body to attention. 

Dean’s hands paused their massaging in surprise. He began rubbing the muscles beneath his fingers again, almost absently, as Sam rolled his shoulders back into his touch. He blinked and quickly pulled his hands away from the young man. 

“Better?” he asked, placing his hands on his thighs and well away from Sam.   
“Yeah,” Sam shifted so that he was leaning back against the couch next to Dean, “Thanks.”   
He looked completely at ease, more than Dean had since him since his rescue. It was a nice look on him.

He cursed beneath his breath at that last thought and shoved himself to his feet. “Grabbing a soda,” he muttered, eyes on the television, “Want one?”   
Sam nodded yes – he caught the action in his peripheral vision – and he turned and headed for the kitchen.

Dean leaned against the kitchen counter, head bowed and eyes closed. What the hell had that been, in the living room? Yeah, Sam was a good-looking kid and yeah, the way he leaned into Dean’s touch like he was starving for it was a little fascinating, but he was _17 years old and a kidnapping victim_. Dean berated himself for his reaction in the living room. He had never taken advantage of anyone and he never would, especially someone underage. He was not another John Winchester. He was _not_ a John-fucking-Winchester. He rubbed a hand over his eyes in frustration at himself. Obviously he hadn’t been getting enough action outside the field lately. Shit. He took a deep, calming breath and moved to the fridge to grab a couple of sodas. His only reasoning for his reaction in the living room was that it had been a fluke. It certainly wasn’t going to happen again. 

As he entered the living room, sodas in hand, his eyes fell on Sam. The young man was leaning back against the couch, head tilted slightly to the side as he watched the movie that was playing. Dean’s eyes fell to his exposed throat, slid down the long length of the young man’s body, and he swallowed hard. 

Shit. He might be in trouble, here.


	6. How, You Ask, I Ever Last So Long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean & Sam visit Dean's former partner, Castiel (or the one in which Dean confesses to his best friend the brief attraction he felt the previous day)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am now caught up on everything I've written (had a few chapters pre-written), so now I have to write some more. ;) Might take a bit longer, as I'm also doing classes & work. Be patient with me! (or kick me if it's more than a couple of days). 
> 
> [ps. I really need to work on painting the visual image of that garden, because this? *twitch* yeah, that needs work]

It was close to noon the following day when Dean knocked on the front door of a brick home with a beautifully landscaped yard. He glanced over at Sam – he hadn’t been certain about leaving the kid alone, so had invited him along – to see that he was staring out at the front yard. He chuckled, causing Sam to glance at him, and said, “Wait until you see his garden.” 

Dean’s attention turned to the front door as it opened, and a full grin cross his features.   
“Hello, Dean,” Castiel Novak, his partner of two years, greeted with a smile. 

“Cas!” Dean stepped forward and grabbed the man, albeit gently, pulling him into an embrace. Cas returned the hug with a smile of his own. “How’s the recovery going?” he asked as they parted. 

“Good,” the other man responded, his deep, slightly gravelly voice traced with amusement, “The same as last week, when you asked. Come in.” He stepped aside, allowing entrance into the house.

Dean followed the slightly shorter man into his home, reaching out to snag Sam’s jacket sleeve and pull him along behind him. The kid had looked as if he was about to flee in panic when Cas had invited them inside. They followed Cas into the kitchen, where Cas crossed to a coffee pot. 

“Coffee?” he asked, pulling three mugs out of a cabinet.

Dean smiled – Cas was curious about Sam, he knew, but he was patient enough to wait for Dean to introduce them. Sam, on the other hand, was practically hiding behind him, a look of uneasiness etching his features. He tugged at the kid’s jacket sleeve, gently pulling him out into the open. When Sam was standing next to him, he introduced,   
“Cas, this is Sam. Sam, this is Castiel, my best friend and partner on the force.” 

“Hello Sam,” Cas greeted with a warm smile.   
Sam shot him a glance before dropping his eyes to the floor and saying softly, “Hi.”   
“It’s okay, Sam,” he said gently, and Sam raised hazel eyes to him, “You can trust Cas. He’s safe. I trust him with my life.” 

The younger man studied him for a moment before nodding in acknowledgement. His hazel gaze shifted to Castiel, and he graced the man with a small, hesitant smile. Dean didn’t miss the curious glance which Cas shot him, and he raised a brow at the other man. Cas caught the unspoken message: he would explain more later. 

They sat at the kitchen table to drink their coffee, and Sam seemed to warm to Cas a little. The man had a way of drawing people in, usually unintentionally, with his calm demeanor. Dean and Cas chatted for a while, talking of Cas’s recovery and Dean’s recent cases. He didn’t speak of Sam’s case, nor of John Winchester: he would talk to Cas about that later. 

After finishing their coffee, Dean shot Sam a smile and asked, “Want to see his gardens? They’re pretty awesome.”

Cas led the way out of the house, through the back door. They stepped out onto a stone patio, which opened up into the gardens. The entire back yard, which was fairly large for the area, had been landscaped and converted into gardening space. A variety of colorful flowers covered the grounds, with stone paths guiding the way through them. Trees outlined the garden and were dotted in betwixt the overflowing flowers. There was an actual garden on one side of the yard, where vegetables were growing. The place was breath-taking, and Sam was in awe. 

“Can I -?” he started, glancing to Cas.   
The man smiled warmly and agreed, “Of course. Enjoy.” 

As Sam wandered into the garden, pausing to brush his fingertips against flowers or stare at the hummingbirds that hovered nearby, Dean and Cas moved to sit on a stone bench, next to a koi pond. They sat in silence for several minutes, enjoying the warmth and watching Sam. Finally, Cas turned blue eyes to him and queried,   
“Well?” 

Dean glanced at his best friend before shifting his gaze to Sam. “He was part of this last case I worked,” he finally spoke.

Cas tilted his head in curiosity, eyes moving to Sam, and Dean continued, “Kidnapping victim. The guy had him for nine years, kept him locked in a tiny room for the last four.”   
They watched Sam explore the gardens as Dean continued, explaining the case, how he had found Sam locked up and how John Winchester had claimed the kid was a demon. He explained how Sam hadn’t any next of kin and had been placed in a safe home temporarily, and how it had sent the kid into panic attacks. 

Cas listened without interruption, and finally Dean ended with, “So I brought him home with me. I didn’t know what else to do, but I couldn’t just leave him.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, and Cas finally said, “You have a big heart, Dean. You’re trying to do right by him, and there’s nothing wrong with that.”   
Both men watched, eyes on Sam, as the young man halted suddenly. The flowers near him rustled and, moments later, a fluffy grey kitten emerged. Sam and the kitten stared at one another for a moment, and then the animal moved to brush up against his legs. Dean and Cas smiled as they heard Sam laugh; the boy knelt in the grass to pet the small kitten. 

Dean’s cell phone began to buzz in his pocket, and he pulled it out to glance at the caller ID. “Mom,” he told Cas as “Mom” popped up on the small screen, “Gotta take this. I’ll be right back.” Cas nodded, and Dean stood and moved into the house to take the call. 

 

When Dean exited the house almost twenty minutes later, he spotted Castiel across the garden, sitting next to Sam. The young man was speaking to him, gesturing in the air with one hand as he did. The grey kitten was sitting on Sam’s lap, and he was stroking it with his other hand. He heard the two laugh, though he couldn’t hear the reason, and a smile touched his own features. Castiel raised his head and spotted him: the man stood and patted Sam on the shoulder, then moved in his direction.

"Nice kid,” Cas commented upon reaching him.   
Dean nodded in agreement, “Yeah, he seems to be. It’s nice to see him talking to you. He hasn’t really talked with anyone other than me since we picked him up.”   
“He trusts you,” Cas stated matter-of-factly, “He told me about the eggs.” 

It took Dean a moment to remember the eggs he had burnt in front of Sam; when he did, he chuckled. His gaze drifted to Sam, and he watched for a moment as the young man played with the kitten. He ran a hand through his hair and turned to his best friend, “Cas…”

“Yes, Dean?"

Dean hesitated, uncertain how to bring up what was on his mind. He sighed and nodded toward the stone bench nearby, and Castiel followed him to it. He hadn’t had anymore inappropriate reactions to the young man whom was currently his house guest, but it bothered him that the first one had happened. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, then turned to Cas and said, “So, weird thing happened yesterday..”

When Dean had finished telling Cas about his reaction to his house guest the previous day, they sat in silence for a minute. Cas turned a thoughtful gaze to him,   
“You said he had been locked up for years,” the man spoke, “so it’s natural for him to crave touch and human interaction, when he hasn’t had any. Your reaction – well, it’s natural, too, I think. He was putty in your hands, so to speak, and we both know that you enjoy the submissive ones.” 

Dean shot the man a glare as he said, “Not helping, Cas.” He saw the smirk that touched Cas’s lips – the other man was playing with him. 

“Seriously, Dean,” Cas said, “You’re human, too. Your brain knows what kind of situation Sam was in, but your libido doesn’t, and usually doesn’t ask permission about those things. It doesn’t mean you’re a pervert like the bastard whom had him locked up.” 

“I know,” Dean said, and he did know: still, it eased his mind a bit to hear his best friend say it. 

 

Sam was leaning against one of the trees, holding the now-sleeping kitten on his lap, when Dean approached him.   
“Hey,” he greeted as he reached the young man, “Enjoying the garden?”   
Sam shot him a full-blown grin, revealing dimples, as he answered, “This place is amazing! Thank you.”   
“For what?” he asked as he seated himself on the sun-warmed ground next to the younger man.   
“For bringing me,” Sam’s smile turned a bit more shy as he glanced over at him, “It’s – you’re being really kind to me. Thanks.”   
Dean laughed softly as he ran a hand through his hair. “You’re welcome.” He nodded toward the kitten and added, “May I?”   
Sam nodded yes, and Dean reached over to gently stroke the small animal’s soft fur. “Mr. – “ Sam paused for a moment before amending, “Castiel - said his name is Squirrel.”   
Dean barked out a laugh at that information – leave it to his best friend to name an animal after another completely different species of animal. 

They stayed for a pleasant lunch of pasta and salad, and chatted for a while after they had finished eating. Finally, though, Dean stood and stretched. “Should probably head out,” he said regretfully, “Gotta work in the morning.” 

Castiel rose to his feet and the two embraced, and Dean felt a slight tremor run through the man. His eyes met Cas’s, and the smaller man shot him a smile; still, Dean knew that he was still experiencing muscle weakness and fatigue from his injuries of months before. Dean hugged him close, head resting against his shoulder. Every now and again (okay, he would admit that it was daily) it struck him how close he had come to losing the other man when Cas had been shot by a drugged-out suspect. Three weeks in the hospital and now six months into recovery, and Cas was still feeling the effects of a bullet to the chest and Dean was just very-fucking-happy that the man was alive. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” his friend murmured near his ear, rubbing his back lightly, “I’m getting better. I’m fine.” 

He nodded against the man’s shoulder and, after another moment, raised his head and stepped back. He shot the other a sheepish smile, causing Cas to chuckle, before saying, “I’ll call you tomorrow, and I’ll see you next weekend.” 

Dean glanced at Sam, whom was sitting on the couch, watching them, and asked, “Coming, Sammy?”   
The boy scrambled to his feet and followed him, waving goodbye to Castiel, as Dean headed for the front door.


	7. Cause I Went Blind, A Blinding Riot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's still adjusting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dull chapter, apologies. Had a family emergency and haven't had time to write, and this bit of filler is all I've got tonight. Better stuff next chapter.

Dean woke the next morning with a pounding headache. He sat on the edge of the bed, his palms pressed against his eyes, and sighed heavily. His dreams had been filled with images of the evening Castiel had been shot, so he hadn’t slept well. The detective pushed himself to his feet as his alarm started buzzing. He reached over to turn it off and ambled toward his en-suite and the shower. 

After a hot shower, he readied himself for work and went into the kitchen. Two cups of coffee and several Tylenol helped to ease the pain in his head. His eyes shifted toward Sam’s bedroom as he sipped his coffee: he hoped the kid had gotten some sleep and wasn’t curled up on the floor of the closet again. He understood the young man’s apprehension with his new surroundings; still, he wanted him to be comfortable. 

Dean grabbed a notepad and ink pen that was laying nearby on the counter and scribbled a note to Sam, telling him to make himself at home and eat anything he wanted. He added his cell phone number at the bottom, in case Sam needed him. The detective finished the bagel he was eating and his coffee and left the apartment, locking the door securely behind him. 

 

He was sitting behind his desk a while later, staring at Sam Wesson’s file, when someone nudged his shoulder. He glanced up, startled, to see Garth standing behind him. The man was holding two cups of coffee, and handed him one. 

"Morning,” the slender man greeted, moving to seat himself at his own desk, which was across from Dean’s, “How was your weekend with your new house guest? How’s Castiel?” 

“Cas is good,” Dean answered, taking a sip of his coffee, “Thanks for this. Needed it. Sammy’s doing – well, he’s doing okay, given the circumstances.” 

Garth shot a glance toward the Captain’s office, then leaned across his desk, “I heard the ADA wants to pull Sam into court to testify against Winchester, for the kidnapping charges.” 

Something close to fury welled up in Dean at the words, and a muscle in his jaw tensed. Garth noticed it and pulled back slightly. 

“I don’t know how accurate it is,” the other man admitted, “Bess heard her talking to her assistant about it Friday evening. She had a family thing come up and forgot to mention it to me until this morning. Talbot might have changed her mind.” Bess was Garth’s wife and worked in the District Attorney’s office as a receptionist. 

Dean tapped his fingertips against Sam’s file, his brow furrowed. “Winchester confessed, so Sam’s testimony isn’t necessary. Talbot’s not getting her claws into that kid so that she can parade herself – and him – in front of the press. She can damn well find another way to make a name for herself.” 

Both men looked over as an officer approached Dean’s desk. “Winchester,” the woman greeted with a warm smile, “How’s Novak?”   
“He’s good, Jodi,” he answered, taking the files she handed over to him, “He said to tell you hello, and he expects more of those almond cookies soon.”   
Jodi Mills laughed and promised, “I’ll bake some more for him before the weekend.”   
“You’re spoiling him, you know.” “Damn right,” Jodi winked at him, and Dean grinned and shook his head.

Dean and Garth spent most of the day catching up on paperwork for the case against Winchester and going through cold cases. They left the station a little after 6 p.m.; Garth to meet his wife, and Dean to head for his apartment. He pulled into his parking lot a short while later and climbed out of the car, locking the doors behind him. He patted the car’s hood fondly as he walked around it, and went into the apartment building. 

The apartment was quiet when he entered, and Dean paused after closing and locking the door. He tilted his head, listening; after a moment, he moved through the place, shedding his suit jacket as he did. A quick glance into both the kitchen and the living room told him that Sam was in neither place, so he moved to stand in front of Sam’s bedroom door. He knocked softly and called through the wood, “Sam?” Moments later, footsteps sounded and the door was opening. 

Dean studied the young man standing in the bedroom doorway, hazel eyes on him. While he looked less frightened than he had yesterday morning, the kid still appeared apprehensive. “Been in here all day?” he asked curiously. Sam bit his bottom lip and nodded, his eyes shifting from Dean’s face to somewhere around chest level. The detective raised a brow and asked, “You’ve eaten today, though. Right?” The other didn’t look at him at all this time, and Dean cursed silently.

“Sammy.”

The boy raised his eyes, and Dean asked gently, “Why didn’t you eat anything?” 

“I – didn’t want to – to mess up anything, or invade your space. It’s – it’s your home and you’re being kind enough to let me stay here..” 

"Sammy,” he laid a hand on the boy’s arm and Sam raised his eyes, “Listen. As long as you’re staying here, we’re roommates. That means this is your place, too, and you can do anything you want.” 

The look on Sam’s face was a cross of bewilderment and awe, and he started, his voice almost a whisper, “You’re not afraid that I’ll –“ His voice trailed off and he dropped his eyes again. 

"That you’ll what?”

"That I’ll defile your living space?” the younger man fidgeted uneasily, his eyes on the floor. 

“That you’ll – “ Dean stared at him for a moment, “What?”

“John always said I desecrate the space I’m in,” Sam’s shoulders slumped and he seemed to shrink in on himself, “He said I’m a contamination.”

A dark rage rose up in Dean at the almost-whispered admission. He clenched his fists at his sides, teeth gritted. He wished that John Winchester was standing in front of him right now, so he could inflict half the suffering on the lunatic that the man had inflicted on Sam.

Sam misinterpreted his obvious tension and stepped back away from him. “Sorry,” he whispered, eyes on the floor and head bowed, “I’m sorry.” 

The fearful, submissive gesture had Dean exhaling his anger almost instantly. 

“Sammy,” he said softly, stepping close to lay his hands on Sam’s shoulders, “I’m not angry at you. I’m not. You don’t have to apologize to me. The only person I’m angry at is John Winchester, because he hurt you.” 

Sam glanced up at him through his long lashes. He believed Dean, it seemed, for he relaxed a little, his demeanor less fearful now. Dean raised his hand to lay it against the other’s cheek, and Sam tilted his face slightly, pressing into the detective’s touch. Dean traced his thumb across the boy’s cheekbone, a smile playing at his lips. 

“You’re not a contamination,” he said gruffly, “You’re not evil. You’re not any of that bullshit that John Winchester drilled into your head. You get me?” Sam nodded, eyes closed as Dean stroked his face. The detective chuckled and teased, “You are a little bit like a kitten, though. Like to be petted.” 

“Sorry,” the boy whispered, though he made no move to pull away. 

“Come on,” Dean stepped back and nodded to the doorway, “I’ll fix us something to eat.” 

 

Dean was sitting at the computer a short while after dinner had been finished, which was perched on a desk in the living room’s corner. He had just typed and sent a quick email to Cas, when Sam appeared next to his shoulder.   
“Is this the internet?” the boy asked curiously.   
Dean glanced up at the kid, brows raised in surprise, and asked, “You’ve never been on the internet?”   
Sam shook his head no, smiling sheepishly, “John never allowed it.”   
“Huh,” Dean turned his gaze back to the computer screen for a moment. He motioned to a nearby ottoman and suggested, “Pull up a seat.”   
Sam obeyed and scooted the ottoman next to Dean’s chair and seated himself, and Dean proceeded to show him the magic of the internet.

Dean pushed himself to his feet a bit later and stretched. He stepped away from the computer chair and, motioning toward it, told Sam, “Go ahead, try it out.”   
Sam had watched him navigate for a bit, asking questions when something puzzled him. He was a quick study, that was certain. The boy hesitated for a moment before moving to sit in Dean’s chair. He watched as Sam stared at the monitor for several long seconds. 

“What should I do?” he asked, glancing up at Dean.

“Whatever you want,” Dean chuckled, “You can watch shit on Youtube, or search for whatever interests you on Google. Hell, you can do just about anything.” He moved toward the couch as he added, “Just stay away from porn and chat rooms for a while, yeah? You’re not ready for that.” He chuckled as Sam shot him a slight grin and ducked his head. Dean seated himself on the couch and flipped on the television.

Dean jerked awake a little later as the couch shifted slightly. He glanced over, to find Sam sitting next to him. “Time is it?” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his eyes. He glanced at the clock on the wall above the television: it was almost midnight. He shoved himself to his feet and stretched before turning to the younger man on the couch. “I need to hit the sack,” he said as he ran a hand through his hair, “Gotta be up early. Feel free to use the computer or watch t.v. or whatever.” The other nodded, and he started for his bedroom. He paused and glanced over his shoulder, and instructed, “And Sammy, eat something if you’re hungry.” Another nod, and he continued toward his room.

He dreamed that night of scared boys locked in small rooms, and he couldn't get them out.


	8. On The Right Side (Of The White Noise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam opens up a little. Dean has feels that leave him in uber protective mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been traveling a bit & spring break's over so these may come a bit slower, as I've classes & work, too. Boo to that.

Dean caught a case the following morning, which kept him and Garth on the run for the next few days. He was hunting down suspects and witnesses and following leads late into the evening, and arriving home exhausted. He picked up take-out on those nights, in lieu of cooking at home, for him and Sam. To his relief, his new roommate seemed to be more comfortable in his apartment – Sam didn’t lock himself away in his room all day every day. 

The case was, thankfully, wrapped up in only a couple of days. The murder suspect was brought in Thursday afternoon and had written and signed a confession by Thursday night. The confession came right after Garth had revealed that the man’s face had been plastered all over the video feed of a gas station where he had shot and killed his ex-girlfriend and her fiancé. 

It was close almost 10 p.m. when Dean entered his apartment that night. He closed and locked the door behind him and moved through the place. He had just draped his suit jacket over the back of the couch when sudden movement had him stepping backward in surprise. He was reaching for the gun on his hip when he realized it was Sam: the younger man had been lying on the couch. He exhaled and dropped his hand away from his gun as the other shot him a sleepy smile. 

“Hi Dean.”

“Hey Sammy,” Dean moved around the couch to drop down next to the younger man, “Sorry if I woke you.” 

“I was waiting up for you,” Sam glanced at him before shifting his gaze away to look at the floor, “I guess I fell asleep.” 

Dean shot the kid a smile and said, “That’s okay. It’s kind of late.” He couldn’t help but chuckle as the kid rubbed his eyes. “Go back to sleep, kiddo. I’m hitting the sack myself. I’m off tomorrow so we can hang out then.” Sam shot him a shy smile and nodded in compliance. Dean winked at him – he couldn’t stop the grin that crossed his features as a flush touched Sam’s cheeks and the younger man glanced away. He reached over and brushed a stray lock of Sam’s hair away from his forehead – the other’s eyes slid closed at the touch – and murmured, “Night, Sammy.” 

“G’night, Dean.”

 

Dean woke the next morning to the smell of bacon. He blinked and sat up in his bed, glancing at the empty space next to him. Had he brought home someone last night who decided bacon would be good at – He glanced at the clock, which read 8:23 a.m. No, he had worked late last night. He shoved himself out of the bed and padded out of the bedroom, in the direction of the kitchen.

Dean entered the kitchen and spotted his new roommate standing in front of the stove. Sam was staring at a pan of frying bacon on the front burner with a look of intense concentration. The young man started as Dean spoke, “Trying your hand at cooking?” 

Dean took in Sam’s startled features as the boy (young man, his mind mentally corrected) turned to look at him. The other looked both sheepish and nervous, and rubbed his hands together in front of him in a nervous gesture. 

“I – I hope it’s okay,” Sam motioned to the stove behind him, “For me to do this, I mean.”

“Yeah, absolutely,” Dean assured, shooting the younger man a smile, “I want you to make yourself at home while you’re here, Sammy.” Another smile, this one more shy. 

“I thought I would try to fix you breakfast,” Sam turned his attention back to the food so he could flip the bacon in the pan, “You’ve been cooking for me after you work and stuff and you’re a good cook, but it didn’t seem fair that you’re doing everything.” 

The detective shot the other a smile as Sam glanced in his direction, cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I appreciate that. Thanks, Sammy,” he moved to stand behind the younger man so he could peer over his shoulder at the cooking food. The aroma was – well, it was bacon, therefore it was amazing. His gaze met Sam’s as the other glanced over his shoulder at him. His eyes dropped to Sam’s mouth as the other licked his lips (probably nervous due to his close proximity, his mind would later supply); he jerked his gaze away and stepped back as he realized what he was doing. “I’m going to take a quick shower,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair, “I’ll be right back.”

By the time he had finished his shower and dressed in a pair of jeans and a black t-shirt, breakfast was ready. Dean knew that it was Sam’s first attempt at cooking and he had planned to tell the kid that he liked it, no matter how it tasted. He was pleasantly surprised when he didn’t have to fake it: the simple breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast and hash browns was delicious. The kid was a fast learner, it seemed, and took to cooking as well as he had to the internet. 

“These are great, Sammy,” he complimented enthusiastically (and for the second time) as he shoveled another bite of eggs into his mouth. The younger man beamed at him, cheeks tinted red in embarrassment and pleasure, and the detective couldn’t help but think that he was adorable. 

 

When breakfast was eaten and the dishes loaded in the dishwasher, Dean turned to his roommate. “Think you’re up for going out today?” he asked the younger man, “There’s a nice park close by, if you want to check it out.” Sam hesitated for a moment before nodding yes. 

“You sure? We can do something else –“

“I’m sure,” Sam shoved his hands in the pockets of the hoodie he was wearing over his t-shirt as he shot Dean a nervous smile, “I think I’m ready to – to go out.” 

It was a nice day so Dean opted to walk to the nearby park. It was an uneventful stroll, though Sam stayed close to his side, and moved closer when anyone passed them. They were there in less than 10 minutes; thankfully there were only several people in sight. Dean wasn’t certain if Sam was ready for a large crowd. His eyes shifted to his companion as Sam halted next to a giant tree. The younger man stared up at the branches high above him as he said, “I haven’t been to a park in – in a long time.”

With a start, Dean recalled that the other had been taken from a park, years before. He cursed himself silently, even as he wondered if Sam remembered the day he had been taken. He drew a breath before asking softly, “When’s the last time you were in one?”

Sam was silent for a moment as he stared up at the treetop. “It was when John still took me places,” he said, “I – he was with me, I think I might have been 11 or 12.” He glanced at Dean before turning his gaze to study the rest of his surroundings. Even as his hazel eyes locked on a flock of ducks floating on a nearby pond, he added,   
"I think – I think I was at a park the day he –“

That hazel gaze shifted to the ground for a moment, brows furrowed in thought, before moving back to the ducks, “I remember the people who were keeping me, kind of. My foster mom was sitting on a bench and I was playing on a playground.” Sam fell silent for a long minute – Dean didn’t speak, realizing the kid was lost in thought. The younger man glanced at him and shot him a small smile and said,

"He told me he lost his dog. I remember him saying that his dog had pulled the leash out of his hand and had run off after a duck. He asked if I had seen it. He acted like – like he was really worried about it so I told him I would help him find it.” 

That tendril of anger that seemed to rise every time Dean heard how Sam had been taken and how he had been treated coursed through him again. His fingers twitched at his side but he refrained from making a fist, afraid that Sam would misinterpret the gesture as anger toward him. There was confusion and something else that he couldn’t place in the other’s eyes as Sam glanced at him and said wryly,   
“Guess that was pretty stupid of me, huh?”

"You were a kid, Sammy,” Dean shook his head, denying the other’s self-proclamation of stupidity, “You were trying to help someone. You didn’t know.” 

Sam followed his lead as he moved toward a nearby park bench. They sat on it and watched as a couple jogged by, a leashed dog leading the way. Dean turned his attention to the younger man as he finished,   
“What happened wasn’t your fault, Sam.”

"John told me it was,” the boy fidgeted on the bench beside him, fingers tapping the wood and his words coming in a soft-spoken rush, “He – he knew I was bad the moment he saw me. That’s why he took me away. He said it was to protect other people.” 

“He was wrong,” Dean shifted on the bench so that he was fully facing Sam, “You’re not bad, Sammy. You’re not evil. John Winchester is a lunatic. That shit he said about you was his crazy coming out, that’s all.” Dean almost missed the other’s next words, they were spoken so quietly,

“He said I was the reason my real parents were dead.”

“Son-of-a- “ he bit off the curse before it was finished, “Sammy, look at me.” The younger man obeyed, raising his eyes to meet Dean’s. 

"You’re not the reason your parents are gone. You’re not evil, and you’re not going to contaminate anyone. The man who abducted you was and is a delusional psychopath. He believed those things because he’s crazy. He kept you locked in that room because he’s crazy. It wasn’t your fault, none of it. You get me?” 

Dean reached a hand out and wrapped it around the back of Sam’s neck as the kid nodded, his eyes on the ground. He saw a tear slide down the other’s cheek, and his heart ached for the boy. He pulled him into a hug, and Sam leaned into him, arms sliding around his waist. The detective held the younger man and stroked his hair as Sam sobbed silently in his arms, shoulders shaking. “You’re okay, Sammy,” he whispered, resting his head against the other’s, “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” 

Dean continued holding Sam and stroking his fingers through his hair, even after Sam’s tears had subsided. The younger man seemed content in the embrace; Dean smiled as Sam snuggled against his side. They sat in silence for a while, watching as pigeons fluttered near them, snatching bread crumbs that someone had dropped earlier from the ground. 

Dean glanced down at Sam as the other tugged lightly on his shirt, fingers playing with the material. He shot the boy a smile, which was returned. Every protective instinct in his body woke with Sam’s next almost-whispered words, 

"John scared me, but I feel safe with you.” 

The detective tugged the boy close again, one arm wrapped around his shoulders, and vowed silently that he would protect Sam with everything in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title for Chap. 8 from "Panic Switch" by Silversun Pickups


	9. Can't Leave The Scene Behind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys visit Cas & Sam is (mildly) 'triggered'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took so long (& is so short). Let's blame work & classes. Rawr.

“How long is Sam going to be staying with you?”

Dean’s eyes shifted from the young man exploring the gardens to his best friend. It was Sunday, and they were visiting Castiel, as Dean did every Sunday he had free. There was only curiosity in the question, and Dean relaxed slightly. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted, his eyes moving to Sam, “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, inviting him to stay with me. He doesn’t have any family to my knowledge, and he doesn’t know anyone else. I guess he’ll stay until he’s ready to leave.”

Dean’s green gaze turned back to Castiel as his friend chuckled softly. “When he’s ready,” his friend asked gently, “will you be?” Dean contemplated the question in silence for a long moment, reminded again of how well the man next to him knew him. Finally he sighed and answered, 

“I don’t know, Cas. It’s only been a week but I’ve grown pretty fond of him.” 

“He’s a sweet kid,” Castiel commented, his eyes following Dean’s gaze to the kid in the garden, whom was currently sitting on the ground and playing with a kitten. The man turned back to Dean and added suddenly, “So what’s bothering you?”

Dean stared at his friend for a moment – Castiel could read him better than anyone. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair before revealing, “Garth called me last night. Said that psycho, Winchester, has been asking one of the officers to take a letter to someone for him.” 

“Sam?” 

Dean nodded, a scowl marking his features, “Rufus called Garth and gave him the head’s up. Winchester doesn’t know where he’s staying but figured Rufus could find out and get it to him.”

Castiel was silent, digesting the information. “Rufus told him to piss off, of course,” he said finally, more a statement than a question. He smiled at Dean’s chuckle and nod of affirmation. The two watched as Sam stood and moved along the garden path with Squirrel, the kitten, following at his heels. 

“I’m not going to let him get hurt again,” Dean said suddenly, eyes on Sam and his voice low, “Not by Winchester or anyone else.” He glanced over at Cas, whom met his gaze with an intense look of his own. The other nodded slowly, and Dean knew he understood the depth of the meaning in his words. 

The two men fell silent, watching as Sam approached them. The kid dropped down on the ground in front of them and Squirrel leaped into his lap. Sam raised his eyes from the kitten and graced them with a full-blown grin, complete with dimples. “I think he likes me,” he said, scratching the kitten behind the ears. Dean smirked at him as he teased, 

“He probably knows you’re part kitten yourself.” 

Sam laughed and shook his head as he denied, “Am not.” 

The detective reached out and brushed his fingers through Sam’s longish locks, lightly scratching his scalp; a second later, Sam was leaning into his touch, eyes closed. A visible shiver ran through the boy and he sighed softly. After several moments the younger man opened his eyes and admitted with a grin, 

“Okay, maybe a little.” 

Dean smirked and pulled his hand away with some reluctance. He glanced over at Cas, to find that his friend was staring at Sam with something like mild fascination on his face. The two watched as Squirrel jumped off Sam’s lap and ambled away. The kid shot them a smile before he shoved himself to his feet to follow the fur-ball through the gardens.

Dean glanced at Cas again as his friend noted, “He’s very .. responsive, isn’t he?”  
The detective nodded, turning his eyes back to Sam. 

“I was the first person, other than that whack-job John Winchester, to touch him, in any way whatsoever, in four or five years. I don’t think Winchester did except to –“ Dean paused, fist clenching on his thigh and anger stabbing through him, “-to do whatever it was he did to the kid.”

“He’s starved for affection,” Castiel guessed, his eyes following Sam’s path through the gardens, “and he doesn’t know or trust anyone but you.” 

Dean nodded yes and murmured, “Something like that, I think.”

They had lunch on the garden patio a short while later. They talked a bit before carrying the dishes into the kitchen. Dean and Cas glanced over as there was a soft smash of breaking glass: Sam had accidentally knocked a glass off the counter. 

“I – I’m s-sorry,” the kid stammered, raising horrified eyes to them, “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” Dean moved around the counter, “Just don’t cut your self on that.” The detective knelt and picked up the larger glass shards as Cas went to the pantry for a broom and dustpan. 

Dean discarded the large pieces of the glass in the trashcan and turned to Sam. His brows furrowed as he took in the younger man’s posture: Sam had backed away from the broken glass and had his arms wrapped around himself. His head was bowed and his longish bangs fell over his eyes.

The boy was scared.

“Sammy?” Dean moved around the remains of the glass on the tile floor to stand before the younger man.

“I’m sorry,” the apology was soft-spoken, “I – I didn’t mean to do it.” 

“It’s okay,” Dean assured, tilting his head to try to see Sam’s downcast eyes, “We know you didn’t mean it. It was an accident.” He glanced over as Castiel joined him; the other man’s blue gaze was fixed on Sam.

“Do you want to punish me now or after I clean it up?” Sam’s question, barely audible as it was, was spoken with the certainty that punishment was coming. Dean couldn’t stop himself from clenching his fists at his side, a scowl etching his features, and wishing yet again that John Winchester was standing in front of him. His gaze shifted to Cas as his best friend spoke,

“There’s nothing to punish you for, Sam. It was only a glass, and you didn’t mean to do it. That doesn’t merit punishment. I didn’t like that one, anyway.” 

Sam’s gaze was startled as he raised his eyes to Castiel. “But – but I broke it.”

Dean watched as Castiel walked to the counter. He was both amused (though not overly surprised) and grateful when the man suddenly raised a hand and knocked another empty glass off the surface, to the floor. They watched as it broke into pieces with a soft tinkling sound. 

Castiel turned back to Sam and pointed out, voice serious, “Looks like I broke one, too.” He shrugged and added with a soft smile, “It happens.”

Sam stared at the man like he had gone mad, eyes wide and mouth hanging open a bit. He blinked at Cas, then at Dean, then at Cas again. Dean moved to him and, laying a hand against his cheek, repeated, “It’s just a glass, Sammy. It’s okay.” The other’s eyes slid closed as he leaned slightly into Dean’s touch and nodded. 

 

They were in Dean’s Impala later that evening, on the way home, when Sam spoke softly, “I’ll leave whenever you want.” Dean flicked his gaze to Sam and then back to the road,

“What?”

“Whenever you want me to leave, tell me,” the other repeated, his eyes on the floorboard as he chewed his thumbnail, “I – I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble at Ca- at Mr. Novak’s.” 

Dean glanced at him again, a strange, empty feeling rising from the pit of his stomach at the thought of the younger man leaving, “You weren’t any trouble, Sam. You’re _not_ any trouble. You stay as long as you want. You don’t have to leave until you’re ready. I mean that.” 

“You’re so nice to me,” Sam murmured over the background noise from the radio, glancing at him from the corner of his eye, “I don’t understand why.”

“I’m – “ Dean ran a hand through his hair, eyes on the road ahead, “I’m just acting like any other person would. Anyone who isn’t crazy like John Winchester, that is.”

Sam was silent for long seconds, thinking. “I’m not – “ he began, words hesitant, “I don’t know how to be normal, I guess.” His hazel gaze shifted to Dean as the detective reached over to lightly tug a lock of his hair.

“You’re doing just fine, Sammy.”

Sam smiled at him, small but genuine, and Dean felt another pang in his chest at the thought of the other eventually leaving.

Dean reached to turn the radio up as he heard the song that was playing. 

“Like the Eagles?” 

Sam shrugged a shoulder as he stared out of the passenger window. “John listened to them a lot,” he said. 

“Okay, not that then,” Dean reached for the radio knob, “Let’s never listen to the Eagles again. I hate the Eagles.”

He couldn’t stop his own grin as Sam laughed softly, head resting against the glass of the window.

 

When Dean rushed into Sam’s room later that night, after the boy had cried out in terror from a nightmare, he swore he was going to break John Winchester in half. If ever he saw the man again, he intended to wipe that almost-serene smile right off his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chap title for this chapter from SilverSun Pickups's "Panic Switch"


	10. See Yourself In A Crowded Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad dreams. Dean has to leave for a case. Cas to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gah, sorry this took so long! Been swamped with homework.

Sam raised his head as someone entered the room. It was John, and he was carrying that thin length of cane he liked to use for punishment. He tried back away but he couldn’t find a way out of the small room he had been in for a long, long time. Tremors racked his body as the man moved closer, fist tightening around the cane rod. 

“You ruin everything you touch,” the man told him, disgust tracing his voice and his features, “You ruin everyone around you!” Sam raised his arm, a cry of fear escaping him, as John raised the cane rod and brought it down.

 

Sam jerked awake abruptly, breathing ragged, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He flinched and tried to pull away; he went still suddenly as a now-familiar voice spoke near his ear,

“Sammy, baby, wake up.” 

The young man turned his eyes to the man next to him; he exhaled in relief as his gaze met Dean’s. He pushed up in a sitting position and launched himself suddenly into Dean’s arms, sliding his own arms around the man’s waist. 

“Hey,” Dean’s warm breath tickled his ear, “It’s okay. I’m here, I’m right here.” 

He rested his head against Dean’s shoulder, burying his face in the man’s neck, and let the man’s warmth surround him. He sighed softly as the detective began to rub his back gently, rubbing in circles against his t-shirt. 

“Sorry,” Sam finally spoke against the man’s neck, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Dean trailed his hand up along his back, fingers brushing the back of his neck, to gently tangle them in his hair, “Bad dreams?” 

Sam nodded, another soft sigh escaping him as the older man began to run fingers through his longish hair.

“Want to talk about it?”

He shook his head no without raising his head and murmured, “Not – not yet.” 

Sam pulled back a bit as Dean shifted and murmured, “Here..” The man shifted away from him and pushed himself to his feet. Sam knew he shouldn’t feel disappointed – he didn’t have the right to feel that way - yet the feeling was there. He raised his eyes to the older man as Dean instructed,

“Slide over.”

There was only a moment’s hesitation before Sam obeyed and scooted over, to the far edge of the bed. His eyes widened slightly as Dean slid into the bed next to him and laid back on one of the pillows. 

“This okay?” the man asked, looking over at him as he crossed his arms behind his head. Sam nodded yes, slightly shocked: The detective wasn’t afraid to lie next to him like this? Sam knew he should tell the other man (again) that he shouldn’t be this close, that Sam could only contaminate him with his badness. He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words, though, as Dean shot him a warm smile. 

His eyes shifted to Dean’s hand as the man pulled it from beneath his head to pat the mattress next to him. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment as he stared as the spot the man had patted: after several long moments, he slowly laid down on the bed, resting his head on the pillow. He could feel the flush that crept up his neck and cheeks as he realized that he was lying in bed with the detective, barely inches from him.  
He shifted his eyes to the other man as Dean murmured, “I’m right here, Sammy. You’re safe, okay?” He nodded yes, and Dean smiled again. “Get some sleep, kiddo.”

Sam started in surprise as Dean rolled suddenly onto his side and laid an arm across his waist. His eyes flew to the detective in surprise, and he blinked at the man. Dean’s eyes were closed already, but the man shot him another smile before murmuring, “Night, Sammy.”

The warm, safe feeling in his chest was still new to him, not to mention the feeling of the arm that was holding him securely, and he swallowed hard. He stared at the other man for a long moment before gathering his courage and scooting slightly closer. Dean smiled without opening his eyes and tightened his arm slightly, pulling Sam against his chest. Though he knew he shouldn’t be touching the detective because he was full of whatever evil John had found in him, and Dean was so obviously good, he couldn’t make himself pull away. He rested his head against Dean’s chest – just for a moment, he told himself. Just this one moment, then he would pull back and stop tainting the older man with his touch.

“Okay, Sammy?” Dean’s voice was a sleepy murmur. He nodded yes and whispered, “Yeah,” and Dean smiled and rested his head against Sam’s. Sam was still for a moment before relaxing with a soft sigh. He had never had this before, not that he could recall. This feeling of safety and closeness with someone else. He knew he shouldn’t get used to it; Dean would want him to leave one day, and probably soon. Still, this feeling – safety, happiness – was the first he had had for as far back as he could remember, and he wanted to hold onto it for a tiny bit longer.

 

Dean had just finished his shower the following morning, and was pulling on a pair of boxers, when his cell phone rang. He snagged it off the nightstand beside his bed, where he had left it charging the previous night, and accepted the call from Captain Bobby Singer.

“Yeah?” 

The detective listened to his Captain for a minute; when the man was finished on his end, he sighed and agreed, “Yeah, fine. I’ll be there soon.” He ended the call and tossed the phone on the bed so he could finish getting dressed. Once he was finished, he pulled a black duffle bag from a shelf in his closet, and started gathering clothing. When he had the bag packed and had tossed in his toiletries, he slung it over his shoulder and grabbed his suit jacket and cell phone. He checked the safety on his gun before sliding it into his holster, and left the room to tell Sam that he would be leaving town for a couple of days.

Dean was sitting in Baby (his name for his Impala) two hours later, waiting on Garth to exit the coffee shop with their morning caffeine fix. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, his thoughts going to his roommate. Sam had assured him that he would be fine while Dean was out of town on a case, but the detective couldn’t help but worry about the young man. He chewed his bottom lip for a moment before pulling his cell phone. He opened the message app and typed a quick message:

“Have case, have to leave town for couple days. Sam says hes okay but I think he’s nervous. Think he’ll be okay?”

He hit send and laid the phone on the seat next to him, just as Garth opened the passenger door and climbed in the car. He had just turned his attention to the open file resting in his lap when the phone sounded, informing him he had a text. Garth snickered from his place in the passenger seat and said, “You lost a life.” 

Dean smirked; his text tone was from the Super Mario Brothers video game, and was the sound made when Mario died. He picked up the phone and checked the message, to see that it was a response from Cas:

_Be careful. Don’t be stupid. Want me to stop by & check on him?_

Dean chuckled softly at Castiel’s message before replying:

“That would be great. Thanks.”

The response to that was a heart and a winking smiley face, which made Dean smirk at the small screen. He pocketed the phone and, closing the file and tossing it onto the seat next to him, started the car.

 

[x.supernatural.x]

 

“Man, I’m beat,” Garth tossed his duffel on the floor and threw him self on one of the double beds in the hotel room. Dean shook his head and smiled as he dropped his own bag by the bed closest to the room’s door. 

“Me, too,” he agreed as he sat down on what was to be his bed for the next day or three. It had been a long day of hunting down witnesses and trying to take statements. The problem with small towns, he had learned long ago, was that everyone knew everyone else and few people were willing to just offer up helpful information to out-of-town detectives. The man rubbed his palms against his tired eyes as he yawned. They wouldn’t even be here if their suspect hadn’t fled. Yet here they were, trying to track down someone who might have an idea of where their suspect, whom was accused of multiple assaults and drug dealings and suspected in two murders, was hiding out. 

Dean’s phone chimed the Mario death theme – Garth snorted in amusement from his spot on his own bed– and he pulled the device out of his pocket. He swiped his finger over the screen, unlocking it, and read the text from Castiel:

_Sam was a little freaked when I went to your place. Your neighbors are banging each other and the walls again. Brought him back to mine. Haven’t sacrificed him to any voodoo gods yet, never fear._

Dean chuckled as he read the message and sent one of his own:

“Thanks, Cas. Appreciate it. Love you.”

The response arrived a minute later:

_Might change my mind about the sacrifice if he snores. ha ha. I’ll keep him safe. Love you too._

Dean smiled and shook his head. He toed off his shoes and lay back on the bed, eyes on the ceiling. The yawn caught him off-guard and he stifled it with the back of his hand. Maybe a quick nap before grabbing some dinner wouldn’t hurt.


	11. It's Always Meant To Be Seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas & Sam & conversations

Castiel was standing at his kitchen island, cutting fruit into bite-size chunks, when Sam entered the kitchen. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted with a pleasant smile.

Sam graced him with a shy smile of his own and returned, “Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

The younger man nodded yes as he approached. Castiel noticed the dark circles beneath the boy’s eyes, and doubted if he had, indeed, slept well (or at all). Still, he didn’t speak it aloud. He noticed also the wariness etched in the other’s features, the way he moved: careful, as if he was prepared for some kind of attack, be it physical or verbal. He didn’t comment on that, either, and kept his eyes on the fruit he was cutting as Sam moved closer. 

“Like to cook?” he asked, using the flat side of the knife to scrape the fruit onto a large serving plate. He laid the knife down and then raised his eyes to his houseguest. Sam’s eyes shifted from the knife to Cas’s face. He wasn’t certain what the boy saw there, but Sam relaxed, suddenly and visibly.

“I’m not really good at it,” the younger man answered his question, moving to lean on the counter, “but I like it so far.” 

“Dean tells me you make some tasty eggs,” Castiel placed the place of fruit on the counter and, scooting it toward Sam, motioned to it, “Help yourself, please.” 

“He seems to like them, but maybe he’s just being kind,” the younger man replied, “He’s – he’s really kind to me.” 

Sam studied the fruit for a moment before snagging a piece of pineapple off the plate and popping it into his mouth, “Do you need some help?” The young man nodded toward the supplies for breakfast, laid out on the counter. 

“That would be nice,” Castiel gave him a smile, “I would love to try some of those eggs I’ve heard so much about.”

 

He was sitting on the garden patio an hour or so later, a cup of coffee in one hand and a folded newspaper in the other. He shifted his attention between the crossword puzzle he was studying and the young man whom was roaming his gardens, a fluff-ball of a kitten at his heels. As his eyes flitted from the paper to Sam, a frown touched Castiel’s features. He couldn’t understand how anyone could trap another human being in a room for years and treat him like Sam had been treated by John Winchester. He had seen similar incidents, and far worse ones, during his time on the force. Still, it perplexed him that humans could treat others so poorly. 

Cas placed his coffee cup on the table and reached into his pocket as his cell phone began to vibrate. He swiped a thumb across the screen, unlocking it: the man smiled and shook his head as a text message popped up:

_How’s Sammy?_

“He’s fine,” he sent back a response, “He’s in the garden again.”

_Ok, thanks for looking out for him._

“No prob. Don’t worry, I’ll keep your boy safe.”

_Know you will. Thanks Cas._

“Hows the case going?”

 _Eh, dragging along. Of course noone knows where our suspect is. Like we don’t know they’re covering for him. Garth is pulling out the Everybodys Friend persona so maybe we’ll get info today._

“Good luck. Be careful.”

 _Will do. Gotta run, talk later._

Cas pocketed the phone and turned his attention to Sam, whom was approaching him. He gave the young man a smile, which was returned as Sam took a seat at the table. 

“I love your garden,” the younger man said with a sheepish grin, “I guess that’s obvious, huh? It’s beautiful, though. Haven’t really ever seen anything like it before, except on t.v.” 

“What did you do when you were – “ Castiel paused, considering his words, “ – kept in your room?” 

“Read a lot,” Sam smiled down at Squirrel as the kitten leaped suddenly onto his lap, “The same books over and over mostly.” He raised his hazel gaze to meet Cas’s, “Watched television sometimes. Daydreamed about places I would go if I ever got out of that room.” 

Cas nodded – he had spent weeks in a hospital after having been shot in the line of duty, and that had made him stir-crazy. He couldn’t imagine being locked in one room for years on end. His attention shifted back to Sam as the boy asked quietly,

“Do – do you think I’m overstaying my welcome? At Dean’s? He – he’s so nice to me. I don’t know if - if he would tell me if he didn’t want me there anymore.” 

“No,” Castiel answered immediately, smiling at the other, “I don’t think you’re overstaying your welcome. I believe Dean enjoys your company.” 

He didn’t miss the small but pleased smile that touched Sam’s mouth; he chuckled quietly and picked up his coffee. 

 

They spent part of the day in the gardens and part of the day in the garage. Castiel had instructed the younger man to make himself at home. He, himself, had planned on sorting through some items in his attached garage. Sam had offered to help him; Castiel didn’t want the boy to feel obligated, but had finally agreed when Sam had confessed that he didn’t know what to do with himself in the house. 

Cas might have rolled his eyes once or twice, when Sam refused to allow him to lift anything remotely heavy, moving it for him instead. “You’re still healing,” had been the answer when Cas had informed the other that he was perfectly capable of moving things. His one attempt to lift a box of tools anyway had been thwarted when Sam had threatened to tell Dean upon the detective’s return. 

“Fine,” Cas had finally thrown up his hands in defeat, “You win.” He shook his head with a laugh as Sam shot him a smirk; yeah, this kid was going to be just fine.

 

They were in the kitchen that evening, where Cas was cutting vegetables. Sam had cleared the dishwasher and put the clean dishes away for him; now he was fidgiting with a spoon that was laying on the counter. Castiel shot a covert glance in his direction but remained silent: he figured the kid would speak when he knew what he wanted to say.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Do you and Dean – “ the younger man paused, searching for words, “You seem really close. Do you have a – um, a thing?” A frown etched the kid’s features momentarily and he rubbed the back of his neck, searching for his words, “A relationship?”

“Dean is my best friend,” Cas answered as he continued chopping celery into small pieces, “Are you asking if we have a romantic relationship?” 

Sam nodded yes, and a smile touched Cas’s lips. He was silent for a moment as he continued cutting the vegetable on the board. When he was finished, he laid the knife down and raised his blue gaze to Sam. His features were solemn as he answered the question,

“My love for Dean is absolute. He is my closest and most trusted friend, and I would do anything within my power for him. I would die for him.” 

Sam nodded in silence, eyes wide.

“We’re not in a romantic relationship,” Cas continued. A smile touched his lips, “I’m not certain we could handle one another in that regard.” 

Sam chewed his bottom lip, eyes on the counter, as he puzzled out Cas’s meaning. “I don’t – I don’t know very much about relationships,” he admitted finally, using his fingers to spin the spoon on the counter’s top, “Any kind of relationship. Even being friends with people.” 

“That’s because you haven’t had the chance to explore any healthy ones.” 

Cas scooped the celery from the cutting board and dropped it in the pan containing peppers and onions and andouille sausage and chicken, the beginnings of a jambalaya dish, 

“I believe you’ll be just fine now that you have the opportunity to interact with people in healthier and safer ways.” 

The young man – still only a boy in so many ways – nodded, his eyes on the counter again. 

“You miss Dean,” 

Cas’s soft-spoken words were a statement, not a question, and Sam nodded again in affirmation. 

“He’ll be back soon,” the man assured, reaching over the counter to lay a hand on Sam’s shoulder. The younger man didn’t flinch away, instead gave him a soft smile: Cas would count that as a win. 

“Come,” he suggested, straightening and moving to pick up the next ingredients, “I’ll show you how to make something other than eggs.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title this chapter from Silversun Pickups' "Panic Switch"


	12. Are You Pistol-Whipped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas & Sam chat some more. Dean returns from his case. Cas tells Dean how it is ;-)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from SilverSun Pickups "Panic Switch"

Castiel stood in the living room entryway for a moment, eyes on the youth across the room. Sam was sitting on the bench by the window, his arms wrapped around his knees. 

The boy looked lost. 

“Would you care to join me for a walk?”

Sam started slightly at Castiel’s question, glancing over at him. “Sorry,” the other shot him a sheepish smile, “Didn’t hear you come in. Yeah, a walk would be nice.”

They were strolling down the sidewalk two blocks from Cas’s home when Sam asked suddenly,

“Can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

The other laughed and rubbed the back of his neck, and Cas shot him a smile, 

“You’re welcome to ask me anything you want, Sam.”

“Dean mentioned you got shot a couple months ago. Did – did you recover from that? Or are you? Like, mentally? I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t ask that--”

“You’re fine. It’s an acceptable question,” Castiel assured. He fell quiet for a moment, pondering the question. Finally he said simply, 

“No. I haven’t fully recovered from it yet. Physically or mentally. I still have nightmares about it, and what would have happened to Dean if I hadn’t been there.”

Realization crossed Sam’s features and he asked softly, “Did you get shot protecting him?”

The older man nodded. He glanced at Sam and gave him a slight smile before saying, “If you could call it that. I saw the suspect step out of his hiding place and raise his gun at Dean’s back, and I tried to intervene.” 

They walked a bit further without speaking, both thinking. After several minutes Sam asked quietly, “Do you think that’s something you can completely recover from? Getting hurt like that? Or – or being locked up like I was?”

“I think we can both recover completely,” Cas answered sincerely, “It will take time and quite possibly a good therapist-“ Sam smiled at that comment, “-but yes, I think we’ll both recover fully. You may still have nightmares five years down the road, but eventually they’ll lose most of their power over you.”

Sam nodded; the look on his face was one of pleased surprise as Cas added, “You have Dean to look out for you, and you have me. You’ll get through this.”

“Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I’m sorry you were shot.”

“I’m sorry you were locked away by a psychopath.”

 

The following morning, Dean unlocked the front door with the key Cas had given him two years prior and entered his best friend’s house. He closed the door behind him softly and moved through the house.

“Cas? Sammy?”

The detective halted in the hallway as Sam appeared suddenly in the kitchen doorway. “Sam,” he breathed, almost a sigh of relief, upon seeing the younger man. 

“Dean!” 

Sam moved into the hall and in his direction, a grin breaking out on his face. He halted suddenly in front of the detective. Dean grinned and opened his arms, and the younger man rushed into them. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he murmured into the other’s hair as he embraced him and Sam’s arms slipped around his waist. He raised his eyes and spotted Cas in the kitchen doorway, watching them with a small smile on his face.

“It’s good to see you,” Sam shot him a shy smile, “I was – I was kinda worried about you. I’m glad you’re back.” The younger man bit his bottom lip before adding, voice almost a whisper, “I missed you.”

Dean tried to play it cool and pretend his heart didn’t just do its own personal little jig.  
“How could you not?” he teased with a genuine smile, tugging at Sam’s hair, “You were stuck here with Cas for three days. Uh, sorry about the neighbors back home. They can get a little .. enthusiastic.”

He grinned again as Sam gave a surprised laugh, face coloring slightly as he realized to what Dean was referring.

Dean tugged at the other’s longish hair as he admitted, “Might have missed you a little, too. Wanted to call but we got caught up trying to catch the douche bag we were after.” He didn’t miss the blush that traced Sam’s cheeks when he admitted to missing him. It was rather endearing. 

Dean and Cas were in the kitchen later that evening, drinking coffee at the kitchen island and watching Sam wander the garden through the large, plate-glass windows. The blinds were raised, allowing sunlight to pour into the room. 

“He loves those gardens,” Dean commented, eyes on the youth outside, “Can’t blame him though, your gardener is awesome.”

“Kevin does have a way with plants,” Cas agreed. He placed his mug on the counter as he turned his eyes to Dean, “So. What happened?”

Dean was silent for a moment, his eyes following the young man out in the garden. He spoke finally, eyes shifting to his best friend, 

“The guy we were after, Marcus Ellis, he got someone else before we got him. We were so fucking close. Got there right as he did it, had to put a bullet in him.” The man shook his head, “The kid he knifed died on the way to the hospital. Kid about Sam’s age. Looked a lot like him, too. It –“ Dean rubbed a hand over his face, “Well, you know.” 

Castiel nodded in understanding: he did, indeed, know.

The two sat in silence for several heartbeats before Dean spoke again, words slightly rushed,

“What am I going to do when he wants to leave, Cas? I can’t – I – “ 

The man shook his head, running a hand through his hair in agitation, 

“I knew it was a bad idea to get attached but it happened so fast. I don’t know why, but – hell.” Dean dropped his head into his hands and let out a frustrated huff. 

“He’s your soulmate.”

“What?” the Detective raised his head at Cas’s words, and his best friend repeated,

“He’s your soulmate. That’s why you grew so attached to him so quickly.”

“Still on about soulmates, huh? Thought you were my soulmate,” Dean joked, shooting the other man a slight grin.

Cas chuckled and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger, 

“I am, but in a different manner. Our love for one another is different than your love for him.”

“My love for –“ Dean scoffed and shook his head, “I don’t – He’s 17, Cas! I don’t _love_ him. I just want to look out for him.”

It was Cas’s turn to scoff as the man retorted, “Yeah, whatever, Dean. You keep telling yourself that.”

“I’m not like John Winchester. I wouldn’t take advantage of an underage kid, and one who has been through what he’s been through, at that!”

“I know,” his best friend shot him a smile, eyes crinkling at the corners, “That’s why you’ll wait until he’s ready.”

“You - you’re crazy, Cas.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”


	13. Hold On Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a day off work and a chat with Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the foreverness between updates! End of semester/end of college stuff (yay graduation!) kept me busy.

Dean reached over to silence his alarm early the next morning, before burying his head beneath his pillow. He and Garth had today off to rest up after their out of town trip so it wasn’t necessary to be awake right now. He hated when he forgot to shut off the alarm. 

The Detective rolled onto his back to glance out the bedroom window: it was still dark outside. He groaned aloud and closed his eyes, determined to go back to sleep. Five seconds later, they were open again and he was staring at this ceiling. 

“Balls,” he muttered as he realized that he was up for the day. He sat up and ran a hand through his hair before sliding out of the bed. Might as well get dressed and go for a morning run, since he was up anyway. 

 

Dean had finished his run and was back in his apartment just as the sun was rising. He entered the kitchen for a bottle of water, and let out a startled curse as he heard, 

“Morning.”

Sam was sitting at the kitchen bar with a book in front of him. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” the younger man finished with a slight grin. 

“What? No. I knew you were there,” Dean scoffed as he retrieved a bottle of water out of the fridge. He glanced at Sam and found the other smirking at him. “Okay fine,” he relented with a grin, “You might have startled me a little. You’re like a ninja.”

“What’s a ninja?”

Dean stared at the young man, mouth falling open. “You – you’re kidding?” he asked. His eyes narrowed in a feigned glare as the other grinned suddenly and he realized he was being played. 

“Totally kidding.”

“Smartass,” he flipped his water bottle lid at the grinning kid, “I’m going to take a shower and then we’ll go out for breakfast.” 

 

After breakfast a while later, Dean and Sam stopped in at ‘Gabe’s’, the local coffee shop near the Detective’s office building. Dean wasn’t surprised to find Garth and his wife, Bess, there. They joined them at the couple’s table while waiting on their order, and the sudden, random thought that Sam had gotten taller in the past week or so struck him as he stood next to the younger man. Speaking it aloud had Garth, Bess and Sam all three laughing at him, of course. “Bitches,” the detective muttered with a smirk as he took a seat. 

“This place is run by Gabe and his brother Luc,” Garth was telling Sam a few minutes later, “They have the best coffee in town, I swear.” Dean watched them, silently enjoying the sight of an at-ease Sam. His eyes shifted to Meghan, the barista, as she approached the table with their order. She shot Sam a wink as she handed them their drinks – the younger man blushed and shyly dropped his head, causing Dean and Garth to exchange amused smiles. 

“Oh, damn,” Dean glanced at Bess as he heard the blonde woman’s soft-spoken curse, to find her staring toward the door. He looked over and a frown touched his own features as he watched a sharp-dressed woman approach the table. He stood as she drew closer – from the corner of his eye, he saw Sam do the same. 

 

“Detectives,” Bela Talbot, the assistant district attorney, gave Dean and Garth a short nod as she reached the table. Her eyes, however, were locked on Sam.

“Talbot,” Dean’s own voice was low, warning tracing that single word. He recognized that calculating look on her face, had seen it before.

Bela shot him a slightly uneasy glance before shifting her focus back to Sam. She plastered a smile that could easily pass for friendly, sweet, innocent, before greeting,

“Hello, Sammy.”

Sam had stepped behind Dean when the ADA approached, so that the detective was partially shielding him. He stared at Bela in silence for several seconds before responding with, 

“Only Dean gets to call me that.”

Dean shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the younger man upon hearing the words. He flicked his gaze back to Bela, whose smile had faded slightly, a smirk touching his own mouth. He wanted to grin like an idiot at those simple words, his heart slamming into his chest before returning to its normal beat. Instead he kept his smirk in place as he nodded to Bela – a dismissal – before telling Garth and Bess, “We’ll see you later.” He didn’t give the ADA another glance as he turned and walked toward the exit, a hand resting lightly on Sam’s back to guide the younger man in front of him.

 

“I don’t like her,” Sam’s voice was quiet in the Impala’s interior, and Dean shot him a glance, “She – she doesn’t seem .. sincere.”

“Talbot?”

Sam nodded yes and bit his bottom lip, “I guess I don’t really have a right to feel that way.”

“The hell you don’t! You’re allowed to feel just like anyone else, Sammy. Don’t you forget that,” Dean told the young man as he caught Sam’s gaze, “You have good instincts. Talbot’s out for number one. She wants to make a name for herself and she doesn’t really give a damn who she steps on to get there.” He shot Sam another glance and added, “If she gives you any trouble, you tell me.” 

Sam nodded and graced him with a small smile before turning his head to stare out the passenger window.

“Are you this kind to everyone?” 

The question was soft-spoken, almost timid. Dean couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him upon hearing it. He felt like as ass as Sam dropped his eyes, cheeks flushing, and apologized quickly,

“I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you. I swear I’m not.” He took one hand off the steering wheel to place it over his chest, “Scout’s honor. I just – no. I’m not nice to everyone. I’m not even sure I’m nice to _any_ one.” 

“You are to me,” Sam met his gaze, “And Castiel. And Detective Fitzgerald. And – “ 

“Okay, okay,” the Detective chuckled, eyes on the road again, “I’m nice to the people I like. I like you so I’m nice to you.”

“I like you, too.”

The words were so soft-spoken that he thought, for a brief second, he had imagined them. A quick glance at Sam – and the boy’s embarrassed smile and flushed cheeks – told him he hadn’t.

His own smile remained in place for the rest of the car ride. 

 

Fergus Crowley enjoyed the park. He enjoyed the sun on his face, the breeze, the people that passed by. He was a busy man, and he didn’t have quite as many opportunities to relax as he would have liked. Therefore, he enjoyed his walks in the park with his pup and his thoughts. 

His gaze fell on his pup – the husky was chasing a pigeon at the moment, his leash dragging behind him – and he snapped his fingers. The dog turned his head in his direction, ears pricked, and Crowley called, “Stay close.” The dog wagged its tail and turned its attention to the pigeons again.

Crowley turned to continue his stroll when his gaze fell on two men walking down the path. It took him a moment to make out the man in the lead: the detective, Dean Winchester. Crowley turned his attention to the other man, eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to place that face. His brows shot up as the young man’s identity came to him: Sam Wesson, if he wasn’t mistaken; the youth Winchester had rescued from a drug dealer and child abductor with the same surname.

The two were in conversation as they drew closer to Crowley. He gave them a moment, waiting as they moved nearer him, before calling a greeting, “Hello, boys.”

This was Crowley’s first face-to-face with Sam Wesson, and he took a moment to study the young man. Sam was half-hidden behind Dean, his fingertips grasping the Detective’s jacket sleeve. That was a bit amusing, given that Sam was an inch taller than Dean, at least. He shot Crowley covert glances but wouldn’t look directly at him. As for Dean – well, the Detective was every bit the protective Alpha male in this moment. He appeared relaxed but Crowley could see the tension lining the man’s body as he shielded Sam. It was deceptive, that calm demeanor: Crowley had seen him in action before, and knew that the man was more dangerous than he portrayed. The DA remembered when Dean’s partner, Castiel Novak, had been shot in the line of duty. The shooter had fallen immediately after with two of Dean’s bullets in his head.

His study of the two was, outwardly, less than 30 seconds. It was all the time he needed to see that Sam was in safe hands with Dean Winchester, and the Detective would protect the young man at any cost. 

He supposed he would have to reiterate to Bela Talbot to leave Wesson in peace. He was well aware that his young ADA was in it for the glory in spite of her claims to the contrary; but, if she wanted to keep her pretty little head, she would have to find it elsewhere. Sam Wesson and his story would not be her ticket into the spotlight (or his job – he was well aware she was gunning for it, too). Dean Winchester wasn’t going to allow that to happen, that much was obvious.

Crowley glanced down as his husky pup came running up the path and dropped to lay down at his feet. “Hello pup,” he murmured, leaning down to scratch the dog behind the ears. He straightened and lifted his gaze, to see that Sam was staring at the husky. 

“You’re welcome to pet him,” he offered, gracing the young man with a smile. Sam met his gaze fully for the first time – hazel eyes, intelligent, cautious – before glancing at Dean. The detective glanced back at him and shot him a smile, saying, 

“Go ahead. He looks friendly enough. Crowley might bite, though.” 

Sam blinked at him before suddenly rolling his eyes, catching the bad joke for what it was. 

Sam stepped from behind Dean and knelt, hand stretched out a bit: the husky leaped to his feet, tail wagging frantically, and padded over to him to lick at his fingers. 

Crowley’s gaze shifted from Sam and the pup to Dean as the Detective crossed the short space to stand next to him. A smile touched his lips as the Detective, eyes on Sam, warned,

“Tell Talbot to back off, or I will. She’s not getting her claws in Sammy.”

“I’ll speak with her,” he agreed, glancing at the Detective. Dean relaxed visibly – Crowley’s word was good, and the other man knew it. 

By the time he and his pup were on their way again, his respect for Detective Winchester had gone up another notch. Sam Wesson, he decided, was good for the Detective. As unprecedented as their situation was – most kidnapping victims did not, after all, go home with their rescuing law enforcement agent - he gave Dean something to focus all that protective energy on.

“Come, pup,” the Brit murmured, reaching down to scratch the husky behind the ears, “Let’s go home, shall we?” He pulled his cell as he strolled for the park’s exit and chose a number from his extensive list of contacts.

“Ms. Talbot. Let’s have a word, shall we?”


	14. Will You Step In Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean explains family.  
> John Winchester gets a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, uber sorry for the delay between chapters! Life has been going on & keeping me busy. I'll be out of town tomorrow but back later this week, & hope to have another chapter up before the weekend! (& this one's short, but I'm half asleep. Apologies.)

“Whatcha doing?”

Dean peered over Sam’s shoulder to look at the computer screen. The young man glanced up at him and shot him a shy smile, before replying,

“Cas said I could maybe get my GED online, since I didn’t attend high school.” Sam fidgeted a bit before glancing at Dean again, “Do you – think it’s a possibility? Me getting it?” A frown creased the boy’s features, “Probably not, I don’t know anything about high school and – “

“Sammy.”

Dean shot the younger man a fond smile as Sam trailed off, and tugged his hair lightly. “I think they’ll probably go ahead and give you a college degree right along with that high school diploma. You’re pretty damn smart. Like – smarter than your average bear smart.”

He couldn’t stop his grin as Sam flushed and shot him a smile. His roommate was just too damn cute. He shook his head before that thought could progress and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Sign up for the classes, or we’ll find you a class you can attend in person. Whichever you prefer.” He pulled a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the desk, next to the keyboard, “Put it on this.”

“I can’t let you pay for it,” the look Sam shot him was slightly panicked, “I can’t – you shouldn’t give me that – “ he motioned to the credit card, “I can do it when I get a job. It – I’m not trying to – to take advantage of your kindness, or – “

“Sam.”

He fell silent, eyes on the keyboard in front of him.

The Detective knelt next to the other and, resting a hand on his arm, assured gently, “You are not taking advantage of me. You’re not – whatever the hell that maniac told you that you were. I’m doing it because I want to do it. I want to see you succeed and if I can offer you the tools to do that, I’m going to do what I can.”

“This is too much.” The words were almost a whisper as Sam shot him a side-glance, “You’re too kind to me, Dean. John – “ He swallowed, dropping his gaze, “John always said that kindness is reserved for people you care about. Like family.”

Dean reached up to brush a lock of stray hair away from the younger man’s forehead.  
"You fit that category perfectly, then."

"But -- but I'm not --"

Dean cut off the bewildered protest with a smile as he traced a knuckle down the other's cheek, "Family is more than blood, Sammy.” 

Hazel eyes met his: a moment later, he had an armful of Sam. He returned the hug, tugging the other close and resting his head against Sam’s. Once again, Dean wanted five minutes alone with the maniac who had held this young man captive for so long, and who had made Sam think he was some kind of monster. There were all types of monsters out there. He dealt with them constantly. Rapists, serial killers, pedophiles. This kid in front of him, he wasn’t one of them.

He pulled away from the younger man moments later; his heart skipped a beat as he caught the almost-adoring look in Sam’s eyes. “So,” Dean cleared his throat, “I saw in your file the other day that you’ll be 18 next week.” 

The other boy’s brows shot up and he asked, “Really?”  
The detective chuckled softly and nodded yes, “May 2nd.”  
“I – “ Sam shot him a bashful smile, dropping his gaze, “I couldn’t remember. John didn’t – well, he didn’t really do birthdays. He would pick a random day of the year, different each time, and tell me I was a year older, and that was it.” 

“Yeah, well,” Dean stood and took a moment to stretch his muscles, “He was an asshole. Ever been bowling, Sammy?” When the boy shook his head no, he grinned and said, “Cas and I will take you bowling. Unless you want to do something else?” The Detective raised a brow, “Strip club, maybe?” 

The young man’s sudden blush was adorable, and Dean couldn’t help that he grinned again. “Uh, no,” Sam murmured, shooting him a shy, embarrassed grin, “Bowling is fine.” 

“You’re too cute, Sammy.”  
It was his turn to flush as he realized what he had just spoken aloud; he could feel his cheeks heating up. The pleased, shy grin that Sam gave him made him want to tell the other just how cute he thought he was. Instead, he cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “Let’s, uh, grab some lunch.” 

 

 

“Mr. Winchester,” Bela Talbot nodded to the man across the metal table from her. She met his eyes briefly, and a thread of uneasiness ran down her spine. There was something unnerving about the man’s calm features, that almost-serene smile. She averted her gaze and busied herself with pulling paperwork out of her slim briefcase; she could admit to herself that she was glad that he was cuffed to the ring that was bolted onto the table’s surface. 

“These are copies of your written confession, your charges and your plea,” the woman laid the copies on the table and slid them across to them with her fingertips, “After you read over them, you can sign the plea so that we can file it with the court systems. Your sentencing date will be soon after that.”

“Fair enough,” John Winchester agreed as he pulled the papers to him and started to read them. Bela studied him as he did so; she met his blue gaze as he raised his eyes suddenly. 

“I wonder if you could do something for me,” the man requested, his deep voice surprisingly soft-spoken. He pulled something from the pocket of his orange jumpsuit and laid it on the table: it was an envelope. 

Bela tilted her head as she raised her eyes to him. “You want me to mail something for you?” 

John smiled and shook his head as he pushed the envelope across the table. “I don’t have an address,” he explained, “I thought that you could, perhaps, get it to the person it’s meant for.” 

She picked up the envelope, which obviously held a folded letter or several, and flipped it over. Written on the front was a single word: Sam. The woman raised her eyes to the other and asked, “Sam Wesson? You want me to take a letter to the boy you kept locked in your house for years?”

“I felt the need to apologize,” John gave her that odd smile again, “and explain things. I understand that you many not know where he’s at now, but if you could agree to try to get that to him, I’ll go ahead and sign these papers.”

Bela studied him for a moment – she wanted those papers signed and out of this small room; Winchester was starting to give her the creeps. Finally she shrugged a shoulder and picked the letter up. “Not like anyone can get near him since he’s been staying with that detective,” she muttered as she shoved the letter in her briefcase.

She hadn’t even realized she had spoken those words aloud until the man asked, “Detective?” Bela quickly raised her eyes to him, caught the sudden interest on his face, the almost-manic look in his eyes.

“What?” Shit, had she really spoken that aloud? Stupid! “No. His foster family,” she covered quickly and without a moment’s hesitation, “I meant I would have to ask one of the case’s detectives which family he’s been placed with. That’s something I can’t discuss with you, of course.” She shot him a wan smile, and John nodded and dropped his eyes back to the paper he was signing.

When the papers were signed and in her briefcase again, Bela stood to leave. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Winchester,” she nodded to him, “We’ll see you in court for your sentencing soon.” The man nodded to her and gave her his odd, serene-like smile.

 

Bela was still cursing herself as she unlocked her car and slid in behind the driver’s seat. How could she have made an amateur slip like that? She hadn’t intended to speak it aloud, and it looked as if Winchester had believed her cover story. She sighed and tossed her briefcase in the passenger seat and started the car to head to her next appointment.


	15. There's Nothing Wrong With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday, Sam!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand and one apologies that it took me so long to update this! My Beloved's dad was recently diagnosed with a rather serious illness, so we've been traveling back & forth a lot (and I'm happy to say that Dad is doing much better now). And every time I've sat down to write on this, I've fallen asleep at the keyboard. *headdesk* So many apologies!  
> Debating on if I should end this after the next chapter or two, and pick it up in a sequel as I have more time and less traveling to do, or continue and write on it when I can. Suggestions? 
> 
> Anyway! <3 to you all. ^_^
> 
> [Title this chapter from Awolnation's "Hollow Moon (Bad Wolf)"]

Sam woke slowly, awareness coming back to him in stages. For once, his sleep had been nightmare-free, restful, even. He stretched a bit before opening his eyes; he drew back, startled, as he finally opened them and found Dean sitting on the edge of his bed.

“Morning, sleepy-head,” the Detective greeted with a grin, “Happy birthday!” 

Sam blinked up at him and repeated blankly, “Birthday?” 

“Yep,” Dean reached out to tug a lock of his hair, “You’re the big one-eight today. How’s it feel to be, officially, an adult?” 

The younger man’s brow furrowed slightly before he answered, “The same?”

Dean laughed at that and said, “Got it in one, Sammy”, and Sam couldn’t stop the smile that crossed his own features.   
“Come on,” the older man leaned in and dropped a kiss on his forehead, “Breakfast is waiting.” Sam watched as the Detective stood and left the room; his grin widened as he Dean called from the other room, “I’m gonna eat it all if you take too long.” 

 

After breakfast (“See those eggs, Sammy? Perfect!”), Dean poured two cups of coffee and sat back down at the kitchen bar. Sam fidgeted slightly as the man stared at him for a long moment. Dean suddenly shot him a grin and said, “Be right back!”, then jumped off his stool and left the kitchen. The man was back two minutes later; he was holding a package, wrapped in colorful paper, beneath one arm. He took his seat again, laying the package on the bar as he did. He slid the package across the surface with a smile.

Sam stared down at the wrapped object in front of him. “What’s this?” He glanced at Dean as the other man snorted softly in amusement and answered, “Your birthday present.” His eyes shifted to the gift again – he smiled as he recognized the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle gift wrap (which he had been watching on television every day). His gaze returned to Dean, who encouraged gently,

“Go ahead. Open it.” 

Sam hesitated for a moment before he carefully unwrapped the gift. When he had it unwrapped and the paper neatly folded and laid aside (which Dean found amusing), he opened the flat, rectangle box. 

Sam’s eyes widened as he realized what the box contained. His gaze flew to Dean, who was watching him while sipping his coffee, before dropping to the box again. Inside the rectangle package was a laptop. Sam reached out to touch it with a tip of his finger, almost reverently, before shaking his head. “I can’t – “ his voice was almost a whisper, “This is too much. Dean, I can’t –“ 

Sam raised his gaze to Dean as the older man reached over to lay a hand on his arm. “It’s yours, Sammy,” the Detective told him, green eyes meeting his, “I want you to have it. You deserve it, and it’s your birthday. Happy birthday, kiddo.” 

Sam swallowed hard, his eyes returning to his gift. He took it out of the box and laid it on the countertop, his motions careful, before brushing a hand across the shiny, black casing. “Thank you,” he whispered; he cleared his throat and repeated a bit louder, “Thank you, Dean.” He met the other’s gaze again: When Dean smiled at him, Sam threw himself at the Detective, catching him in a hug. It was returned – a soft sigh of contentment escaped him as he felt Dean’s arms tighten around him – and the older man kissed him on top of the head.

“Ready for some bowling?”

Sam smiled, his face buried against Dean’s shoulder, as the man’s breath tickled his ear. “I don’t know how to bowl,” he reminded. 

Dean chuckled and teased, “That’s alright. Neither does Cas, in spite of his bragging to the contrary.” He contemplated for a brief moment just clinging to Dean as the other man started to pull away, but loosed his hold. 

He tried to ignore that chiding little voice in the back of his head that told him he didn’t deserve to be held by the other man. It sounded an awful lot like John Winchester, that voice.

 

Bowling was, in a word, amazing. It wasn’t the sport itself, though that was far more fun that Sam had anticipated. It was the constant laughter as Dean and Cas teased one another; it was how comfortable he felt with the other two, something he hadn’t had in years; and that he felt safe with them. 

He lost, of course. It was his first visit to a bowling alley and he picked it up as he went along, taking instruction from Dean only to have Cas counter it with “better” tips. He lost, and he enjoyed himself, and he laughed as he hadn’t in a long time.

And when his eyes fell on Dean and he realized that his heart sped up every time he looked at the man, that his stomach did backflips every time Dean smiled at him.. he was okay with that. He figured that hateful voice that sounded like John Winchester would try to talk him out of these good feelings eventually, but for now, he was happy as he was. 

 

Three days after her meeting with John Winchester – two days after Sam Wesson’s 18th birthday (though Bela wasn’t aware of that and probably wouldn’t care) - Bela Talbot was leaving a meeting with a lawyer across down. She had just delivered the paperwork for a plea offer, which the other man had convinced his client to accept. She smiled as she slid into her car, pleased with herself, before pulling her phone from her pocket. She frowned as she saw it was dead. She was reaching into the console for the car charger when she remembered that she had accidentally taken in into her apartment the previous night. Damn. She would have to wait until she was at the office to charge her phone. She had two stops more to make before returning there. She sighed again as she started her car and muttered, “Here’s hoping there aren’t any important calls I’m going to miss.”

Three hours later, Bela stepped into the District Attorney’s office. She stepped back, startled, as she was immediately confronted by her boss.

“Why the hell did you not answer your phone?” Crowley demanded, crossing the office to snatch up his own briefcase, “Bess has been calling you for hours!” 

“My phone went dead and I left my car charger at home,” she watched as the man snatched up his own cell phone and a set of car keys, “What’s going on?” 

“What state was Winchester in when you left him?”

“He was fine,” the woman blinked, surprised by the unusual question, “Well, as fine as someone in a prison holding cell can be. He was – calm. Eerily calm. What’s going on?”

“He escaped,” Crowley motioned for her to follow as he exited the office.

“What?” Bela stared after him in shock for a moment before rushing out of the office after him. She followed him past the receptionist’s desk and down the short hall, “What do you mean, he escaped?”

“He escaped,” the man repeated, “A little over an hour ago. I don’t have all the details yet, just that he was about to be transported for court in the morning. I’m about to meet with Captain Singer right now, and -”

“Oh, shit.”

Bela’s tone of voice had Crowley turning to look at her. He stared at her for three seconds before asking, “What is it, Bela?” 

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze and couldn’t keep the slight panic out of them, “When I took Winchester that paperwork the other day,” she remembered, “I – I let something slip. I swear it was an accident, and I covered it. I don’t – he may – shit.” 

“Tell me,” Crowley demanded as he took a step closer. She stepped back, recalling why he was such opposition in court and the District Attorney: his demeanor alone could be intimidating. She bit her lip – she was ambitious and she wanted to make a name for herself, but she truly didn’t want the boy that Winchester had abducted to suffer any more than he had already - and proceeded to tell him what she had let slip to John Winchester.


	16. Make a Deal With The (Bad) Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John pulls an escape act, and Dean is pissed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, delays! Finally getting another chapter up (and have the next one written to post tomorrow). This one is a bit short, apologies, I'm multi.tasking like mad these days definitely not Mr. 100% Focus at the moment.
> 
> Thanks for all the kind, awesome comments. <3
> 
> [Entry title from Awolnation's "Hollow Moon"]

Detectives Winchester and Fitzgerald were returning to the office after half a day of pursuing leads on a case that had come across their desks that morning. They hadn’t even made it to their desks when Garth’s phone chimed, indicating he had a text.

“Weird.”

Dean raised his eyes to his partner at Garth’s mumbled comment.

“What’s weird? Besides you?”

“Bess just sent me a text that said she’s just now getting a chance to text me, that something’s up,” the other man answered. A frown creased his normally cheerful features, “Doesn’t say what, though.”

“Winchester! Fitzgerald! Get in here!”

Dean and Garth exchanged glances before putting their coffee cups on their desks and heading toward Captain Singer’s office. They heard the voices even before entering – their Captain sounded agitated, and they could see through the office window that he was running a hand through his gray hair. 

Dean opened the door and entered first: he noticed immediately that District Attorney Crowley and the Assistant DA was present, also. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in Bela Talbot. The usually collected ADA looked ruffled, eyes shifting between their Captain and her own boss, as she chewed a thumbnail.

His guard went up immediately. Something was wrong, obviously, and it showed in the stances of the three people waiting for him and Garth. “What’s up, Cap?” he asked, glancing at Garth as his partner entered behind him and closed the door.

Dean’s eyes flicked to Crowley as the DA asked abruptly, “Where’s your boy?”

“My --? “

Shit. Sam.

“What’s going on, Bobby?” Dean demanded of his Captain, his eyes shifting between his boss and the District Attorney. It was Crowley who answered the question, 

“John Winchester escaped several hours ago.”

Dean stared at him for half a second, stunned, before demanding, “What the hell do you mean, he escaped?” He jerked his cell phone out of his pocket and opened the message screen even as he instructed, “Keep talking.”

As Crowley relayed what little information they had, currently, regarding the escape, he sent a quick message to Castiel:

“Winchester escaped. Sam might be in trouble.”

Less than thirty seconds had passed before he had a response from his best friend:  
 _I’m on my way to your place_.

“Be careful, I’ll meet you there.” 

Dean pocketed his phone and turned to head out the office door.

“Dean!” Bobby called, “Where you going?”

“I’m going to get Sam.”

“We need you here!”

Every muscle in his body was tense as he turned and shot back, “He needs me there!” He would be damned if he would remain in this room while there was the possibility that Sam was in danger. The room was silent for approximately ten seconds before Bobby nodded in agreement and said, “Go. Backup will be right behind you.”

The Detective dialed his house phone as he maneuvered through traffic, emergency grill lights flashing and maintaining a speed well above the speed limit for most of the drive. “Come on, Sammy,” he muttered, weaving around a line of cars that were waiting for a light to change; he tapped the brake long enough to make certain he had a clear path through on-coming traffic before slamming his foot down on the gas again. 

He wasn’t getting an answer on the house phone. Maybe Sam was in the shower, or maybe he still wasn’t comfortable answering the phone (as he had mentioned to Dean only several days before, claiming he felt it was an invasion of Dean’s privacy). Dean’s number would show up on the caller ID, though, and – 

“Fuck!”

The unpleasant feeling that something was wrong, that Sam was in trouble, was building in his chest.

 

When Dean reached his apartment complex, he had barely killed the engine before he was out of the car and heading for the building. His eyes fell on Castiel’s car sitting several parking spots down, but he didn’t see any sign of the other man. Nor had he received any texts or calls from him. He paused only for several seconds to jerk his cell phone from his pocket and hit the button to silence it. The last thing he needed was a stray text message or phone call distracting him or giving away his position. Once that was done, he made his way through the halls and to his apartment quietly, gun drawn. 

Dean was several feet from his apartment when he saw that the door was cracked open slightly. That in itself was a sign of trouble: Sam always kept the door locked. Castiel had his own key, so perhaps it was him with Sam right now. That gut feeling that screamed trouble told him otherwise, however. Cas might be in there with Sam, but Dean had the feeling that they weren’t alone. He halted, exhaling quietly to calm himself, and tilted his head to listen for noise or voices from the apartment.

He heard them after several moments of silence. It was Castiel’s voice that carried to him, muffled somewhat: “You don’t have to do this. Noone has to get hurt here.” Dean fought down his building rage at the words, at the thought of someone endangering the people he held most dear, and placed a hand carefully against the apartment door. He listened again – his rage upped a notch as he heard what sounded like flesh striking flesh and a grunt of pain. 

“No, please! Don’t hurt him!” Sam’s voice, traced with fear. 

Dean couldn’t make out the deep-voiced murmur that was a response to Sam’s plea. He shoved open the apartment door silently, allowing himself a better view inside, his gun raised and ready.

He cursed beneath his breath as that same deep voice called, 

“Is that you, Detective Winchester? We’ve been waiting for you.” The man – one John Winchester – sounded inordinately cheerful. It made the detective want to knock his teeth down his throat.

“How about you come on out and we’ll talk, then,” he called back, teeth gritted as his grip on his gun tightened. The man laughed at the suggestion: yeah, he really wanted to knock his teeth down his throat.

“Come in, Detective,” the invitation was almost cajoling, “It is your home, after all. I promise I’m not going to shoot you. I don’t even have a gun.” 

Dean hesitated – walking in without knowing exactly what he was facing was not a good idea. “Cas? You and Sam okay?”

“They’re fine,” Winchester’s answer only pissed him off more, and he ground his teeth to bite back his suggestion that the man go screw himself. He relaxed marginally when Castiel answered, 

“We are. He has a knife, I haven’t seen a gun.” 

“Tsk,” he heard John chuckle, “Tattletale. I told him I didn’t.” 

Enough of this bullshit. If he was going to go down, he was going to do it protecting his own, damnit. Dean took a breath and pushed the door wider before stepping into the apartment, gun in hand. Several rapid glances told him the situation: Three people in the open space between the kitchen and the living area. Sam was tied to a kitchen chair; Winchester was standing behind him, using him as a shield and holding the point of a knife to the base of his throat; Castiel was sitting on the floor next to Sam’s chair, bleeding from the temple and the side. His eyes met his best friend’s blue gaze for a split second, and he saw the regret and the apology in Cas’s eyes.

Dean’s green gaze focused on John as the man shot him that eerily calm smile of his and greeted, “Hello, Detective. As you can see, I’ve come back for the boy.”


	17. The (Bad) Wolf Don't Bite No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's gettin' real sick of John's shite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter written, my computer glitched and ate it, so I had to rewrite it. Hated the second rewrite, so rewrote it again. :-p I was going to write out this big scene (including Dean getting some John-face-bashing time in there) but then thought 'damn, I just want John Winchester to go away'. So.. this is how it ended up. 
> 
> [Title for this chapter from AWOLnation's "Hollow Moon"]

To say he was angry would be an understatement. He was a good detective because he managed to do his job without losing his head. Because he was able to focus on what needed to be done. Now, though.. he may have appeared calm outwardly, but he was actually quite furious. He really, really wanted to kick Winchester's teeth down his throat. 

This crazy bastard was holding everything he held dear at knifepoint and _smiling_ about it. 

His gaze shifted to Sam and he asked, “Okay there, kiddo?”  
The younger man nodded, hazel eyes wide with fear and unshed tears. Dean’s heart skipped a beat in pain and rage as the captive spoke, voice shaky,  
“I – I’m sorry, Dean. I – I didn’t mean to –“ 

“That’s enough,” the crazy Winchester with the knife said sternly, eyes shifting to the top of Sam’s head, “Of course you meant to do it. You destroy everything you touch, you always have. Apologizing for it won’t change what you are.” 

Sam flinched at the words, and Castiel practically growled from his current place on the floor. Dean’s focus was back on Winchester, however. “How about you let them go,” he suggested, “and we’ll sit down and talk. Coffee? Tea? Whiskey? I’ll let you choose.” 

“I think if I let them go, you’ll shoot me before I have a chance to choose,” John smiled again, “Why don’t you put your gun away, Detective?” 

“Soon as you put your knife away.”

“Oh, I can’t do that,” John’s eyes shifted to Sam again, before lifting to meet Dean’s own, “You can’t trust him. Don’t you see that? He’s gotten to you already, I suppose. I tried to tell you that he’s evil, that he’ll corrupt you.” The man’s eyes narrowed, almost alight in their mania, and he nodded toward the young man tied to the chair, “I saw it the first time I laid eyes on him. He’s a demon and he has to be contained. I need to do what I should have done years ago.” 

Dean’s thoughts raced – he knew backup was on the way but the man holding a knife to Sam’s throat wasn’t stable. His crazy was etched all over his face. He glanced at Sam, saw the fear and the resignation on the boy’s face, and Dean’s anger rose again. That crazy bastard was making his boy believe that shit he was spouting out of his crazy mouth. Sam believed that he deserved what was happening. That wasn’t acceptable. 

Yes, there was a monster in this room, but it sure the hell wasn’t Sam Wesson.

Dean flicked a glance at Cas, so quick that Winchester didn’t notice it in his ranting. Cas did, however, and shifted where he sat, one hand sliding down his leg toward his ankle. 

“You’re right.”

John fell silent suddenly at Dean’s statement. He lowered his gun slowly, making a show of slipping it back in its holster, but leaving the strap around the grip undone.

“You’re right,” Dean repeated as he took several steps closer, eyes dropping to study Sam, “I didn’t see it before, but now I do.”

He saw Sam swallow and the younger man’s gaze dropped to the floor; his heart broke a little at the pain on the boy’s face. He shoved down his emotions as he focused his attention back on Winchester.

“I knew I couldn’t be the only one to see it,” John’s grin was maniacal, and he pressed the knife against Sam’s collar bone, causing the younger man to wince. The psychopath’s eyes shifted back to Dean as the Detective said,

“No, I see it now. You’ve made it clear.” 

His eyes flicked to Cas briefly – the other man, whom was watching him, nodded slightly – before meeting Sam’s gaze.

John’s own grin fell and a look of bewilderment crossed his features as Dean suddenly smirked, 

“Just kidding, you’re still a crazy bastard. Floor, Sam.”

Dean had known the younger man was intelligent from the first moment of their meeting: the boy didn’t even hesitate as he threw himself forward, dragging the chair over with him. John grasped for him, startled, but Castiel chose that moment to slam the knife he had pulled from his ankle sheath into the top of the man’s sneakered foot. 

The man didn’t even have the chance to complete his howl of pain before two bullets in the forehead sent him crashing backward, to the floor.

 

Dean crossed to the downed man to make certain he no longer presented a danger. John Winchester was staring, sightless, at the ceiling; thin trickles of blood were running from the bullet holes in his forehead. The Detective knelt and checked for a pulse, to be safe, and he found none. He stood and holstered his gun before turning to Castiel and Sam.

Cas was cutting loose Sam’s ropes when Dean reached them. “You okay, Cas?” he asked as he helped untangle the younger man from the ropes and the chair. “Of course,” came the response, “Are you?”

Dean didn’t answer as he helped Sam stand; he could feel the younger man shaking. The moment they were on their feet, he jerked the boy into his arms and hugged him close. 

“’m sorry, Dean, he was here because of me, I’m sorry..”

The words were muffled, Sam’s head was buried against his neck, but Dean heard them just the same. 

“Not your fault, Sammy,” he hugged the younger man tighter, stroking his longish hair, “Not your fault. None of this was your fault. Sammy. Shit. My Sammy..”

Dean’s head shot up, instinctively pulling Sam behind him and dropping his hand to his holstered gun, as they heard suddenly,

“Police! We’re coming in! Dean?”

“We’re good, Garth,” he called back to the Detective outside the apartment door. He tugged Sam over to Cas as Garth and a small army of armed officers entered the apartment, “Winchester is over there.”

Dean turned his attention to Castiel and met the man’s gaze; he shook his head before the other man could speak. “Don’t even apologize. It was that crazy fucker’s fault. Shit, he could have –“ He shook his head again, reached out to grab Cas by the back of the neck and pull him close. 

“Just a bump on the head, Dean,” his best friend assured, resting his forehead against Dean’s for a moment, “and a scratch on the side. It’s nothing.”

He glanced at Sam as he felt the younger man shift beside him, and found the other staring at the floor. Sam raised his eyes as Dean said softly, “Hey.” The two locked gazes, and Dean raised a hand to brush a knuckle down the other’s face.

“You know I only told him he was right to distract him, right?”

Sam nodded, a brief smile touching his lips and his eyes on the floor again. Dean swallowed and slipped a hand to the back of his neck, tugging him closer. “Sammy, you’re not a monster. He was the monster. Everything he told you was a lie.”  
Another nod and the other whispered, “I know. You just.. you hear something for so long and begin to believe it, I guess.”

“Then we’ll just have to remind you that you’re not,” green eyes met hazel again, “Every single day, until everything he told you is replaced by something good.” He pulled the other close to rest his forehead against Sam’s, “Until you understand that you’re one of the best things in my life.” 

The smile that crossed the younger man’s face would have stolen his heart on the spot, if Sam didn’t own it already. 

Dean half-turned as they were approached by another officer; he nearly growled as the man stepped toward Sam, and pulled the younger man behind him. The officer stammered something about a medic; he seemed happy to walk away at Cas’s assurances that they were fine. Dean pulled Sam close before reaching to place a hand on Cas’s shoulder so he could pull him near, as well.

These two would be lucky if he ever let them out of his sight again.


	18. 18. As Lost As I Get, I Will Find You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe. Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I did not realize I hadn't finished this. Here's a temporary end. This chapter doesn't quite feel like completion, but it's what I have. also, i realise that whole 'smut' thing didn't happen. I'll rewrite it when my muses cooperate. 
> 
> [title from NIN 'We're In This Together Now']

“Kevin said Sam is a natural.”

Dean started, sloshing the coffee in his cup slightly, as his best friend’s voice reached him. He pulled his gaze from the large plate-glass window in front of him to glance over at Cas. “You’re a damn ninja,” he muttered; he hadn’t heard the other man enter the kitchen. He smirked as he took in the other’s appearance: Cas was dressed in pajama pants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair sticking up in spikes all over his head. 

It had been almost two weeks since John Winchester’s escape and the man’s visit to the apartment. Internal Affairs had done a very brief investigation and had declared the incident – and Dean’s shooting of the psychopath – self-defense immediately following the one hour question-session. The Detective and Sam had been staying with Cas since that night. They had attempted once to go back, but Sam had woken with nightmares (and Dean had, admittedly, had one of his own). The blood had been scrubbed from the floors and the walls, the physical evidence of that night gone, but the memories were still strong. One night at Cas’s had turned into two, then a week, and now almost two weeks. He had mentioned just yesterday going back to the apartment but Cas had merely stared at him until he had let the subject drop.

He pulled a chair for the other man as Cas joined him at the table, cup of coffee in hand. They sat in compatible silence for a moment, staring out at the gardens: Sam was out in them with Cas’s gardener, Kevin. 

“How’s he sleeping?” 

“Better,” Dean placed his coffee mug on the table in front of him, “He feels safe here. Hasn’t been waking because of nightmares, not to my knowledge at least.”

“And you?” the other man sipped his steaming coffee, blue gaze studying him, “How are you sleeping now?” 

“Also better,” Dean ran a hand through his hair as he shot his friend a sheepish smile, “I guess I feel safe here, too. Always have, with you.” They stared at one another for a long moment before Cas smirked and Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Well, now it’s awkward,” Dean pushed away from the table so he could stand and stretch, “so my work here is done.”

 

Dean found himself in the gardens several minutes later. He exchanged greetings with Kevin as he passed the gardener, but his focus was on Sam. His focus had been on Sam, he mused as he gravitated toward the younger man, since finding him chained to the bed in John Winchester’s house all those weeks ago.

“Hey, Dean.” 

The smile cast in his direction had Dean’s heart lurching in his chest. He swallowed hard, realization hitting him like a bullet, before returning the smile. 

Cas was right. He was in love with Sam. He supposed he had known it all along, but admitting it to himself? That sure the hell had taken long enough. 

“Hey Sammy. How’s my boy this morning?” the words were out before he caught them; the grin which touched Sam’s face made the slip worth it. 

“Good,” Sam stood from where he had been planting flowers and brushed his hands against his thighs, cleaning some of the dirt from them, “Kevin’s showing me how to –“

Dean half-listened, his eyes riveted to Sam’s face, as the other talked of flowers and Kevin. Most of his attention was on the way the younger man’s eyes lit up when he smiled, the dimples in his cheeks, the energy emanating from him. He blinked, his attention pulled away from Sam’s face, as Sam chuckled suddenly and asked, 

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying, are you?”

“Not true, Sam,” Dean shot the other a sheepish grin, “I heard you say something about flowers.”

He met the other’s hazel gaze as Sam laughed and stepped closer. Dean’s heart threatened to stop altogether when Sam leaned forward suddenly and brushed his mouth against the Detective’s. Sam pulled back, face flushing red and an embarrassed smile on his mouth.

“Sorry,” the younger man apologized softly, “I’ve, um.. I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now. It – I shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”

“No,” he finally found his voice, cursing himself inwardly for remaining silent for even the short span that he had – he didn’t want Sam feeling guilty over something he was more than happy with. It spoke of Sam’s progress, his healing, that he had even allowed himself to kiss Dean. The Detective was aware of that, and he wasn’t about to let it slip away because he was an idiot who couldn’t find his words. “Don’t apologize, Sammy. You never have to apologize for that.” 

He stepped closer to the other and caught Sam’s arm, tugging him closer. He waited a moment, giving the other a chance to pull away; Sam didn’t, and Dean closed the space between them. “I’m fine with it, I promise.” He brushed his mouth against Sam’s, voice dropping to a whisper as he finished, “You can kiss me any time you want.” 

Sam pressed close and murmured,  
“I’m not sure I know how, so you might have to show me.”  
A low growl escaped Dean at the words, and the younger man grinned up at him, “Growly Dean. I like that.”

Dean couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him at the words, and he pulled the other into his arms for a hug.  
Sam Wesson would be lucky if Dean ever let him out of his arms again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may pick this back up later (when my writer's block goes the hell away!), or write a sequel or something. rawr.  
> Thanks for tagging along for the ride! <3


End file.
